


Meet The Family

by coplins



Series: Family Matters [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (That's what happens when you drink too much kids), Aiming where it hurts, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, All isn't as it seems, Anger, At least not big lies, BUT I LOVE THEM, Blood and Gore, Body Modification, Bottom Dean, Breeding Kink, Cheating, Chronic Pain, Closeted Michael, Codependency, DOUBLE ENDINGS AFTER READER VOTE, Dean is frigging clueless at times, Dean is naked a lot, Depression, Dirt - Freeform, Disfigurement, Dogs, Downward Spiral, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Ducifer only ending at the very last chapter, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Dean Winchester/Michael, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Heartache, Horses, Hurt Dean, Hurt Lucifer, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I know that is sensitive but in this verse something went very wrong with the Winchesters, Increasingly bad morals, Inferiority Complex, Infidelity, Issues, Jealousy, Lack of Communication, Language of Flowers, Language of roses, Lies, Like unsanitary dirt, Lots of smoking!, Love Triangles, M/M, Making Love, Manipulation, Manipulative Relationship, Marking, Maybe. We just don't know..., Michael and Lucifer are different in bed, Misogyny, Moral of the story - don't lie to your loved ones folks, Murder, Mutual Masturbation, Or is it...? Dun dun duuun, POV Dean Winchester, Painkillers, Pining, Possessiveness, Possible Character Death, Possibly Out of Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Really dark at times, Revenge, Rough Sex, SAM IS NOT A GOOD BROTHER, Sadism, Sam can be a good brother :) depending which ending we're talking about., Scarification, Scars, Screw canon! - Dean's a hugger, Self-Denial, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Sex, Sexism, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Siblings, Slow Burn, Slurs, Smoking, Sorry Not Sorry, Substance Abuse, Suicide, Swearing, They have soo many issues!, They're all assholes in their own way, Top Lucifer, Top Michael, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Veteran Dean, Veteran Lucifer, Vindictiveness, Vomiting, WARNING: POSSIBLY TRIGGER HEAVY, anger management problems, bad morals, but Luci/Dean/Mikey ending included before, criminality, even Michael, fake it til you make it, gagging blowjobs, greed - Freeform, happy-ish ending, it's complicated - Freeform, mentions of past character deaths, normalised violence, not what you plant flowers in, oh well, treating each other badly despite loving each other, unhealthy everything, why did I tag that?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 112
Words: 335,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8775037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coplins/pseuds/coplins
Summary: When Dean was discharged from the army after getting wounded in an air strike, his life quickly turns to shit. No money, no home, and difficulty finding employment. He’s lucky to run into rich and handsome Michael, at least gaining him a nice boyfriend. Why Mike wants to be with a chain smoking, alcoholic, used up trainwreck like Dean, Dean will never understand. But hey, if it fits - it sits.There’s something off about their relationship though. Exactly how off slowly starts to become clear to Dean when he meets Nick, Michael’s estranged brother, who’s also a veteran soldier. Things start getting complicated. Dean doesn’t do complicated. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself…[This is a dirty, gritty story about two broken men on their decline into chaos and destruction. A story about how they discover that falling into the deep end isn’t all that bad when you have someone to hold onto.]





	1. Michael

**Author's Note:**

> **IMPORTANT!** the kind of rape depicted in this story is not done by strangers but by people who love and trust one another. It's the kind we forgive, don't fight, and rarely is reported because we still love the person who did it and have the impulse to protect him. It's the kind that if reported rarely is taken serious since it's done by our spouse/boyfriend and therefore it can't be rape, right? Wrong. It still is and it's the product of a rape culture where body autonomy "doesn't count" if you're in a relationship. The words "no" and "stop" are blatantly disregarded. HOWEVER, none of the involved would consider it rape if asked, nor regret it. **SENSITIVE READERS BE WARNED!**
> 
> Make note that the main pairing in this fic is Nick (Lucifer)/Dean. Aside from Dean/Michael, other pairings may temporarily appear, both past, present, and future. There's a double ending, because I had a reader vote: Them main story goes into a Dean/Mike/Luci end, but from a certain chapter you can skip ahead to chapter 113 once it's published, to read the Dean/Lucifer-only ending.
> 
> Also, due to a question, this will have a happy ending . From the character's point of view anyway. Due to the lifestyle they choose to live, it won't be perfect. _They'll_ consider themselves happy.

* * *

# Michael

“Sure you don’t wanna stay for another round?” Dean asks, feigning nonchalance as he lays in bed, one hand behind his head on the pillow, the other on his stomach and a cigarette burning lazily in his mouth. He meets his boyfriend's gaze through the mirror on the wall, where Michael is currently tying his tie. Always pristine and perfect―except for when they were alone.

"I'm sure I _do_ ," Michael says with lips quirked in a rueful smile. "But I can't. I need to be there. The rest of the family will be there as well."

"I could tag along?" Dean raises an eyebrow and smirks teasingly. Berating himself for opening his stupid mouth the moment he speaks. 

Michael shakes his head and breaks eye contact, focusing on fastening his cufflinks. "No. You’d hate it. Plus you'd have to wrangle into, what's your expression again? A monkey suit? And make boring conversation with a lot of boring people."

"I can fucking behave myself for a couple of hours, Mike," Dean argues, using a disinterested tone of voice. He blows a smoke ring and watches it dissipate, then taps some ashes off the cigarette into the ashtray beside him in bed. He hears Michael chuckle. 

"Sure you can, soldier." Dean hates the note of skepticism in Michael’s voice. "But too much is at stake tonight. I need to be at my sharpest, and I'd be thoroughly distracted having you walking around like sex on legs, should you be there." Michael shrugs into his suit jacket and comes to sit on the bed. He grabs Dean by the dog tags and pulls him in for a kiss. "I had these made for you," he says and holds up a set of keys to the apartment. "Feel free to come and go as you like when I'm not here. The idea of you loitering around, making a mess while I'm away, appeals to me."

"Making a mess, huh? What? Not afraid I'll drain your liquor cabinet and sell your TV?"

Michael growls and gets that heated look that goes straight to Dean’s groin, whether he wants it or not. "Knock yourself out, soldier. Everything you do makes life more interesting, that's why I love you, remember?" The words cause a flutter in Dean’s stomach. They always do. From the first time Michael whispered ‘ _I love you_ ’ in his ear during a lazy morning fuck all those months ago, til now. It got to him. Snared him like a choke chain, constricting his airways. Mum and dad used to tell him they loved him before mum died. Then Ennis had said it just days before he got ripped to shreds by a landmine. Dean was a slave to hearing it, but snorted like he didn’t care either way. Michael tugged him in for another kiss. “Will you be here when I get back?”

“When _do_ you get back?”

Michael shrugs and drops the keys onto Dean’s lap before rising. “I’m not sure. Hopefully late this evening. But possibly tomorrow depending on how it goes.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean takes one last drag on the cigarette before putting it out and moving the ashtray to the nightstand. “We’ll see. I ain’t too keen on sittin’ around waitin’ for you like a fucking dog for its master.”

Michael chuckles and looks down on him fondly. “I get that. I regret letting my duties tear me away from you, Dean. But know that I wouldn’t be disappointed if you’d be here when I come home. Just in case…” Michael takes up his wallet and drops a couple of bills on the nightstand. “If you want to have some fun while I’m away, it’s on me.” He bends down and gives Dean one last peck on the cheek and then he’s gone.

Dean is left staring out of the full glass wall opposite the bed, overlooking the skylight of the city. He feels hollow. Nine months they’ve been together and still Mike hadn’t introduced him to his family, nor any friends for that matter. Dean had begun to feel like Michael didn’t want to take it further, despite the fact that he spent most of his free time with Dean (not that there was a lot of that. Especially considering Mike had to travel back and forth between the office here and the one on the opposite coast and could be gone for weeks at a time). But the keys in his lap obviously proved him wrong. There was just… always one excuse or another to why Dean couldn’t come along to meet the family, and it didn’t sit well with him at all. He puts the keys on top of the money on the nightstand, reaches out to grab a remote and hits a button that lowers thick curtains over the glass wall, submerging the room in pitch black darkness. He shoves any melancholy thoughts away and goes back to sleep.

* * *


	2. The Visitor

* * *

# The Visitor

He hears a thud from the living room. It’s too early for it to be Michael. Frowning, he slips out of bed and grabs his duffelbag, digging up his gun. Old force of habit has him sticking an unlit cigarette behind his ear, then he saunters to the bedroom door and opens it. He’s not particularly alarmed. Michael has cleaning staff to keep his penthouse apartment tidy. It’s not the right day for them to be here, but Dean wouldn’t put it past them to drop by, thinking Mike was out of town and the apartment empty. He leans on the doorframe on his forearm, crossing one leg in front of the other and the gun held loosely in his other hand, arm lax by his side―creating an unfazed zero-fucks-given curved pose, and studies the intruder.

It’s not someone from the cleaning staff. It’s a tall, scruffy, ash blonde man with jeans and an army green tee, currently dropping a duffel bag on the floor and stretching so Dean can hear his joints pop. Dean doesn’t recognise him. “Hey, buddy. You picked the wrong apartment to rob.”

The man jerks in surprise, eyes honing in on Dean and giving him a once over before snorting in amusement. “No shit. Mikey home?”

“Nope. He had some family function to attend. You gonna tell me who you are? Or do I need to leave it to the cops to find out?”

“I’m his brother.”

“No you ain’t, pal. I’ve seen his brothers and you ain’t amongst them,” Dean says and gestures with his head towards the photos decorating the pillars between the glass walls without taking his eyes off the stranger.

The guy scrunches up his face in a _what-are-you-talking-about?_ -expression and saunters over to the indicated photos. He looks them over quickly and his face contorts in anger. "You utter shithead!" he exclaims to the room in general and turns to stalk to the land line phone on the bar counter that separates the huge living room from the kitchen. He moves with enough familiarity that Dean judges him to have been here before, whoever he is. Maybe Dean should be more alarmed by having a stranger show up here and move around like he owns the place. Especially since said stranger is totally unbothered by being met by a butt naked guy with a gun. But frankly he’s curious more than anything else. The guy grabs the phone and dials a number, deep scowl on his face.

“Fuck you, Mikey! All the sudden I don’t exist to you anymore?” is the first thing the guy says when, Michael by all appearance, picks up. “What do you mean ‘ _what do I mean_ ’? You’ve taken down every picture with me in it.” He stalks back to the pillar and glares at the offending family photos. “Yes, I am….where else would you think I’d go?.... No, jackass. Cas lives in Europe and Gabe doesn’t even _have_ an apartment. Do you even know where he is right now? China? Australia?” The guy snorts but seems to calm down a bit, going from angry to bitter. “Oh, _suuure_. In that case I’ll just come down to where you’re now instead. Family function, was it?” He sneers at whatever Michael answers. “Thought as much.” He turns his head, sees Dean watching him and makes a gesture tapping two fingers to his mouth while raising an eyebrow in question.

Dean’s lips twitch in amusement. He shrugs a shoulder and goes into the bedroom to fetch a cigarette for the stranger who―judging by the conversation―actually might be Michael’s brother. He puts his gun away where he took it, takes two cigarettes out of the package, sticks them in his mouth, grabs the ashtray and lighter and saunters back out again. When he comes back out the guy is leaning against the flat railing along the glass wall, looking out over the skyline and listening to whatever Michael is saying. Dean places the ashtray on the railing beside him and leans his back against it (succeeding not to flinch from the cold chrome). The guy eyes him neutrally when he lights the cigarettes and mouths a silent ‘Thanks’ when Dean hands one of them over.

“Yeah, thanks for coming to visit me in the hospital, by the way,” the guy says, voice dripping of sarcasm. “No, no, no. Don’t you ‘Luci’ me you asshole. You could at least have _called_...No.... _Pffft._....” He alternates between looking out and eyeing Dean up and down. Not in a lecherous or condescending way, just cataloging what he sees without giving away what he thinks of it, very much in the same way Dean is watching him. The fat jagged, ugly scar running from Dean’s mid-calf up to his hip doesn’t faze him a bit, and standing this close Dean can see a chain and an outline of dogtags underneath his tee. “...who’s the Ken doll?...Don’t play coy with me, you know exactly who I'm talking about. The naked man in your home, with looks that can make lesser men question their sexuality and greater men to discover _theirs_.” Dean snorts a puff of smoke at the assessment and the guy gives him a _I-tell-it-as-I-see-it_ kind of apologetic shrug. “Just a friend, huh?” Dean scowls before he can stop himself. “Seems legit,” the guy says shaking his head, voice again full of sarcasm. “Now you’re confusing me with you. _I’m_ not the one in the habit of making grabby hands at my brother’s partners… Save it. If I were, I would be concerned with _his_ consent, not _yours_...”

Dean still has a wrinkle of discontent between his brows after hearing Michael claim he is just a friend. He blows a smoke ring, pushes himself off of the railing and goes over to the liquor cabinet, not giving a shit about the ashes falling off his cigarette to the marble floor. The conversation goes on behind him. Michael’s brother sounds tired, disappointed, annoyed, and fed up. Dean keeps the cigarette between his lips and pours two almost full tumblers of some fancy ass whiskey. Then he saunters back―he puts a lot of effort in cultivating an arrogant, laid back, and zero fucks given exterior to hide that the opposite is going on inside of him most of the time. It actually helps too. The ‘fake it til you make it’ expression isn’t far off.

The guy has gone back to looking out, sucking tight little drags on the cigarette, underlining his stress level. Dean nudges him with an elbow and holds out one of the tumblers to him when he turns around. The flicker of surprise on his face is satisfying. He takes it and drains almost half of it in one go. “You know what? Fuck the ever living shit out of you, Mikey. Tell dad I sent him a middle finger salute.” The guy hangs up with a frustrated hiss and throws the phone through the room to land on the round couch curving around the glass and chrome fireplace centerpiece. He takes a last drag on the cigarette, squishes the butt in the ashtray and raises his glass towards Dean. “Thanks.”

“Don’t sweat it. You gotta name, or do I need to assign you one?”

The guy’s lips twitch in amusement and he takes a sip of the whiskey before he answers. “Nick. It’s Nick.”

“I’m Dean.”

Nick hums. “Planning to get dressed anytime soon, Dean?”

“Nope.” Dean squishes his cig in the ashtray and smirks, taking a sip of his whiskey watching Nick.

Nick purses his lips thoughtfully for a beat then shrugs. “Fair enough.”

Dean has to hand it to the guy. He is surprisingly comfortable with Dean’s nudity and the situation as a whole, acting no different than one would expect if he'd been dressed (or calmer than one would expect him to be at all). “So which one are you? Lesser man or greater man?” Dean asks, thinking of what Nick had said about him to Michael. In no way except for those words had he shown any sign of being attracted to Dean. Dean pinned him as straight. 

“Neither.”

“Immune, huh?” Not that _Dean_ thought himself to be all that good looking. He was just curious within the context. The question was moot really, because he is not the cheating type. Sure, he could be flirty, but that was more in the general sense, not with intent to get laid (unless he was single).

“No. Just settled and comfortable in my preferences.”

“And what are those?”

“Basically, anything willing with a pulse,” Nick answers with a smirk. The answer catches Dean off guard and startles a laugh from him. One of those unrestrained ones right from the belly. Nick grins at his reaction and sips from his glass again. “So what are you to my brother?” he asks when Dean collects himself.

“His boyfriend.”

Nick's brows draw together, a crease forming between them. He squints and tilts his head, looking at Dean bemusedly. “Does he know that?” Whatever expression formed on Dean’s face made him hasten to add “No offense meant.”

“He never protested to being introduced as such,” Dean answers, trying to sound like he doesn’t care either way but ending up sounding a bit petulant instead. He can't help that little ball of ice rolling in his belly. It's stupid. Michael is great and Dean is lucky to have him. He gives Dean the butterflies and the breath hitches and the whole shebang. He spoils Dean rotten and _likes_ all of his flaws. He doesn’t care that Dean's a chain smoking, alcoholic train wreck who acts like an arrogant piece of shit. He takes Dean on weekend trips, goes boating, playing golf (something Dean hates to admit he enjoys), to fine dining. He accompanies Dean to the seedy bars, where Dean usually hangs out at when Mike's out of town. They play pool or dart and drink themselves shit faced (Dean does anyway). Mike keeps touching him proprietarily whenever someone gives Dean the eye and he never even acknowledges when he himself is being flirted with. And yet...

“How long have you been seeing each other?” Nick asks curiously. 

“Nine months, give or take," Dean answers and turns his back to Nick, heading for the bedroom and thus cutting the line of questions short. Despite how nice his and Michael’s time together is, there were things that didn't sit well with Dean. Like when he'd tried to stop smoking. Mike had assumed it was a financial issue and bought him a couple of loaves of cigarettes without even asking. Same thing when he tried to cut back on booze. Mike had made sure they hung out in bars and clubs, done things where drinking was unavoidable until Dean was back to his usual (over)consumption. At the time it happened, it hadn’t bothered Dean. On the contrary, it had come as a blessed relief because battling withdrawal along with the chronic pain in his leg was a fucking bitch. Looking back at Mike’s behaviour though… it was like a discordant note suddenly being played in a favourite tune.

During the weeks Mike was out of town Dean was, in every sense of the word, homeless. The army pension is a joke. He lived in the cheapest motels he could find and there were far too many nights he’d had to spend in the wreck of his dad’s old car. He survived on odd jobs. Temporary construction work, bouncer gigs, toting crates at the harbour. Any time he tried to get something that would give him a steady paycheck and routines they looked at his record from the army, smiled at him and told him some bullshit line containing the word ‘overqualified’. Dean wished they could focus on the ‘qualified’ part of that word instead. It’s not like barista, cashier, salesman, or fucking whatever were dream jobs for him, but he just wanted a steady fucking job. _Any_ job. Dean suspected that the keys Mike had given him to the penthouse had to do with the argument they’d had the last time Michael was in town and Dean had to opt out of seeing him because he had to work. Mike didn’t like that one bit. Fine. Neither did Dean. But without a steady paycheck he couldn’t get an apartment and sometimes the cheap motels were full and he had to pay more than he could afford for lodging.

Basically, at the age of thirty one Dean is used up, broken, wrecked, unwanted. Eleven years of service and all he’s got to show for it is an honorable discharge, a fucked up leg, and a set of bad habits. No home, no family, no (living) friends to speak of except those still serving. And his hot, rich boyfriend. No wonder he didn’t examine Michael’s behaviour too closely really.

Dean dresses himself in yesterday's clothing, still scattered on the floor. Too late it strikes him that it may look dumb going back out wearing almost the exact same outfit as Nick. But then again, this wasn’t fucking prom where they’d be comparing dresses. So what if he too had washed out jeans and an army green tee? He didn’t exactly own an abundance of clothing to change into.

When he comes back Nick’s sitting on the floor in front of one the cabinets, rummaging around in it. He’s lit another cigarette that he keeps pinched between his lips, his tumbler has been refilled and is sitting beside him on the floor. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Looking for pictures to replace those with.” Nick gestures at the photos on the wall using his head. “I’m not going to let Mikey pretend I’ve never existed. The fucking asshole.” The last sentence is muttered to himself as he pulls out a photo album from the cabinet and removes three photos from it. The dog tags fall out from Nick’s tee when he leans forward. Dean looks at the photos Nick took out―family photos where he’s present, a picture of Mike and him as teenagers, arms slung around each other, grinning broadly―and then at the pillar with the photos. A hand squeezes his heart, memories of his own homecoming and ‘welcome back’ floods his brain.

“Alright. What do you got so far?” he asks and goes to pick the frames from the pillar to help Nick in his mission. Mike may be his boyfriend, but this strikes too close to home. Dean doesn’t care whatever caused the rift between Mike and Nick. He won’t stand by and watch another brother-in-arms coming home to find total rejection and no allies.

Nick stays until the early morning hours paints the skyline pink and gold. They don’t talk about family after changing the photos. They drink and smoke, play cards and trade war stories. The smoke hangs like drifts of fog in the air. It’s probably the most relaxed Dean’s felt since his discharge. Nick breathes of familiarity. Everything from his rough language to his clothes, attitude, and experiences. Hell, it turns out they’ve even served at the same places, once at the same time even though they never ran into each other. When Nick leaves he does so with a handshake and a “Welcome to my side of the family.” Dean’s too drunk to wonder about the odd way of formulating that sentence.

* * *


	3. The Favour

* * *

* * *

# The Favour

Dean thinks Mike has a fetish for soldiers. That the fact that Dean is (was) one is a major fucking turn on for him. Okay, to be fair, one doesn’t have to be Sherlock to deduct that. Mike called him “soldier” easily as often as he called him by name. He got horny any time Dean wore military style clothes, and had a thing for grabbing at Dean’s ever present dog tags.

The only thing that struck Dean as odd was Mike’s obsession with his scar. The first six months of their relationship Michael had acted as if it didn’t exist. Then he’d done a 180 and nowadays he would spend a lot of time stroking and kissing it. He liked to come on Dean’s leg and then rub his jizz into the scar like a fucking lotion. Odd perhaps, but the massage that came with that quirk helped ease the pain so hey, whatever floats your boat, right?

Speaking of boats. They are currently adrift at sea, no land in sight. Dean lies on the deck, blissed out in a post orgasmic haze, keeping his eyes closed to the sun. Mike sits beside him, oozing contentment. Dean twitches when Michael pours some champagne in his bellybutton and then he has to repress a shudder when Mike drinks it and proceeds to lave up any trace from his stomach. “You’re such a brat, Mike,” Dean says with a little chuckle.

“Indeed.” The smile is evident in his voice.

Dean hears him uncork another bottle, then Michael leans in to kiss him. Instead of an ordinary kiss Mike lets a mouthful of whiskey pass from his mouth to Dean’s. 

Life is good.

“Hey, baby. I would like to ask you to do something for me,” Michael says. The endearment is so unusual that Dean opens his eyes to look at him. He has to squint and shield his eyes from the sun before Michael comes into focus, fond expression on his face and a hand trailing up and down Dean’s messed up leg.

“What?”

“I have some documents that need to be signed by a business associate in the Bahamas. They’re sensitive documents I don’t trust to ship in the mail. I was wondering if you could take them there next week, wait a couple of days while they go through them and then take them back when they’re signed? I’ll pay for the whole trip of course. I won’t be home that week anyway. Consider it a mini-vacation? Lounge by the pool, sip umbrella drinks, find a cute cabana boy to care for your needs...” The last part of the sentence is said with a questioning lilt and a finger trailing Dean’s cock.

“I’m a one man’s man, jackass. But sure. Doesn’t sound too bad.” Dean is secretly thrilled at the satisfied expression Mike gets any time he’s assured Dean won’t fuck anyone else. 

"Great! I knew I could count on you. Now let's get your face out of the sun before it turns into more freckles than face." Michael kisses him and fumbles to grab a nearby baseball cap for him at the same time, failing to reach it. 

"You suck at multitasking, asshole," Dean taunts into the kiss as a response to the hidden insult to one of the things Dean liked the least about his looks.

Michael sniggers and sits up straight, grabbing the cap and laying it on top of Dean’s face. "I'm going to multitask you into oblivion," he says and shifts to sit between Dean’s legs.

Dean laughs and adjusts the cap to sit correctly on his head. " _Dude_ , how is that even dirty talk?" Dean's breath hitches as Michael easily slips two fingers into his ass, already sloppy with lube and pliant from their earlier rounds. " _Fuck!_ " One thing could be said about Michael, and that was that he had the recuperation time of a fourteen year old. "Dick, not fingers, I'm good to go," Dean urges. Michael chuckles and lines himself up. 

Life is good.

* * *

10 months together (1 month since meeting Nick)

He spots Nick almost immediately after getting off the boat from the Bahamas. Nick is loading crates onto a truck further down the dock. Without giving it much thought he walks over and starts helping. The documents are snug in his backpack and Mike won't be home for a couple of days anyway. Nick looks up in surprise but gives him a thankful smile and keeps working without a word. They fall into a familiar rhythm, like they've worked together for years―which they have, in a roundabout way. Dean misses this. Working together with someone like clockwork, getting a job done. He misses his unit, being part of something. He misses the camaraderie and just clicking in place with people you just met because you got a common goal. 

Half an hour later his leg is killing him and his breath is laboured. He and Nick are carrying a crate that feels like it's filled with led when Nick suddenly grimaces. "Fuck! Put it down, I need a break."

Dean obliges and Nick goes to fetch a water bottle. He leans on the back of the truck, making a face of suffering, and digs out a packet of pills from his pocket. He takes one and swallows it down with water. 

"That advil or something that actually helps?" Dean asks and goes to join him by the truck. 

"The real deal. You need one?" Nick holds out a pill and the bottle to him before he has a chance to respond. 

"Fuck yeah." Dean swallows the pill and drains half the bottle before handing it back. "Who didja have to blow to get em?" he asks and digs up his pack of cigarettes. He lights two at the same time, offering Nick one of them.

"No fucking kidding. They’re all like, 'we can't give you these lest you get addicted.' Well fuck them. I'm in constant fucking pain. Is it so fucking bad that I want some actual relief from that?" Nick takes a deep drag on the cigarette, closes his eyes, leans his head back and lets the smoke out slowly. "Found a doc that will prescribe me these without questions but he's expensive as fuck."

"'Ts funny, isn't it? The only jobs I seem to be able to get are doing stuff the army deemed me too broken to do," Dean offers. 

Nick sniggers and turns his head to look at him with a little smile. "Same. What got you?" He nods towards Dean’s leg. 

"Airstrike. You?"

"Grenade. They swore they got all the shrapnel out, but some days I think they're full of shit."

Dean grins. "I hear ya." 

Nick studies him while they smoke in silence. Then, "I gotta warn you. The pills are rather potent. I may start running my mouth about shit I should keep my mouth shut about once they hit."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

Nick's eyes tracks up and down Dean’s face before he reluctantly answers. "Like your freckles."

Dean's hand goes up to cover his face before he can stop himself. The sun has tanned him and made his freckles bloom in full force. 

Nick reaches out and grabs his wrist, pulling his hand down with a dissatisfied expression. "No no no. Don’t cover them up. I just wanted to give you fair warning in case I start gushing."

"You _like_ my freckles?"

Nick nods and looks down on the ground, takes one last drag on the cigarette and drops the butt, grinding it out with his boot. "Strange isn't it? Things we used to tease other kids for on the playground are now the things that get us going."

"Like glasses," Dean agrees. 

"Mhm. I just don't want you to get the wrong idea if I start running my mouth. I don't touch my brother’s stuff."

"Hey now. I'm not property."

Nick looks up at him and smirks. "Clearly you don’t know my brother as well as you think you do."

Dean snorts and flicks his cigarette butt away. "Whatever. I've never cheated in my life and I ain’t about to start now, so you can talk all you want." 

"Fair enough."

Nick pushes himself away from the truck and goes back to work. Dean joins him. Once again they fall into silent effectivity. A while later the painkiller takes hold and the relief makes Dean giddy, possibly a bit high too. Nick doesn’t say anything untowards, but he does give Dean appreciative looks like he hadn't before. Dean doesn’t mind that. (In fact, despite Nick's earlier comments about his looks, he'd still thought the guy was straight because his gaze hadn't corresponded with his words until now.) The comment about being Michael’s property grates on him though. 

When they’re done he joins Nick as he goes to collect his pay. They fall into easy marching pace, walking side by side. Nick offers him half his pay but Dean declines. Since he moved in with Mike he doesn’t have a rent to pay unlike Nick, and his intention was to help, not to steal Nick's work. 

"You need a ride? My bike's over there," Nick points at a Japanese monstrosity nearby.

"Yeah, sure. I need to ditch the backpack at Mike’s. Wanna go grab a beer afterwards?"

"I'm up for that."

They end up at a seedy bar, playing pool and shooting the shit. Nick disappears with a chick for half an hour, while Dean gets into a conversation with the bartender. He comes back looking contented, hair in a disarray. Dean's drunk mind decides that he looks real fucking fuckable like that. Something he hadn't considered before. Nick doesn’t hold a candle to Mike of course. Nick’s average in the look department. Tall―a bit taller than Dean―compact, high cheekbones and deep set eyes with heavy eyelids. His eyes usually hold the jaded shine of someone who's seen and experienced too much (just like Dean’s). Not so now. Now there's a boyish twinkle in them and his smile is full of mischief. Dean decides to call it a night before his mind strays too far into that kind of thinking. 

The following morning he runs into Nick at the docks again. This time they're both there looking for work. They get lucky, both being hired by the same guy that Nick worked for yesterday. Apparently their effectivity as a tag team hadn’t passed him by. This morning Nick hands him a painkiller before they even start. Being slightly hung over the pills have a greater effect. Especially on Nick it seems. 

"So what did you think about Gabe and Cas? I'm surprised you didn't run off with Cas. You’d be perfect together," Nick asks while they're toting crates. 

"Haven't met em."

"Why not? I thought you lived with Mikey."

"Yeah. So?"

Nick stops what he’s doing and blinks at Dean. "Wait. But you..." He runs a hand through his hair and looks at the ground. "Fuck. Forget I said anything. This is me running my mouth about shit I shouldn't."

"No, no, no. What are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Look. Ask Mikey about it, alright?"

"Nu-uh, you keep talking right now, if you know what's good for you."

Nick snorts and goes back to hauling. "Where were you this week, Dean?"

"Bahamas," Dean asks suspiciously. He has a bad feeling in his gut. "Michael needed me to retrieve some documents from a business associate while he himself was out of town..."

Nick once again stops what he’s doing. He has a troubled wrinkle between his brows and doesn't meet Dean’s gaze. Dean puts down the box he's carrying and fishes his pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Once again he lights two at the same time and walks up to Nick, crowding in closer than strictly necessary and offers him a cig. Nick takes a drag on it and looks up. He looks disappointed. "You’re way too good for my brother." Dean raises an eyebrow, prompting him to explain himself. Nick takes another deep lungful of smoke. "Michael’s a snake, Dean. He’s all the things they accuse me of being. You should ditch his sorry ass."

" _Nick._ "

"Alright. Alright. I like you, Dean. So don't shoot the messenger. Mikey wasn't out of town. Gabe and Cas flew in from their corners of the world and stayed in Mikey’s guest rooms for a couple of days. I figured you met them since you live there, but..."

"You sure?"

Nick nods. "Unlike the rest of the family they still keep in touch with me and took the opportunity to meet up while they were here. I'm sorry, Dean. Michael lies. He does that a lot."

Dean's jaws clenches, but he doesn’t say anything. He wants to accuse Nick of lying. Wants to say Mike isn't like that. Instead he smokes his cigarette in silence. He doesn’t know. His gut says that Nick is telling the truth. Every time Dean brings up meeting the family Mike has an excuse why he can't. Nick keeps his mouth shut, remaining in their too close proximity. It feels like he wants to lend some comfort. 

When they go back to work they don't mention it again.

* * *

11 months (2 months)

Dean lies with his head on Michael’s chest, stroking him absentmindedly over his pectoral. "So... we've been together for eleven months soon," he starts.

"Yes. Time flies when you're having fun,” Michael says and kisses the top of his head.

"Don’t you think it's time to introduce me to your family?"

"There hasn't been a good opportunity yet. But soon. I promise."

"What about Gabe and Cas? Haven't they been here recently? Like last month?"

"Who gave you that idea? They haven't been here for over a year."

"Sorry, I must have misunderstood. I thought I heard someone say so."

"Who?" Mike raises his head from the pillow and gives him a troubled look. "Did you talk to Luci?"

"Who's Lucy?"

"My brother. You met him once when he came here. Blonde guy. A real train wreck. Don’t listen to a word he says. He’s a compulsive liar and will tell you anything just to spite me."

"Um, yeah. I ran into him the other day at the supermarket." Better a half truth than a lie. He and Nick _had_ gone to the supermarket together.

"Stay away from him, Dean. He’s not welcome in the family anymore. He’s envious, greedy, and spiteful. He’s not a good person."

"You haven't changed the photos back..."

"We used to be close. Until I found him in bed with my girlfriend, Lilith. And that's just the top of the iceberg of what he’s done. But I confess, I miss him. Or rather, I miss us before I knew what he was really like. Just. ...stay away from him. I'd hate it if you left me because of his lies."

"Okay..."

In truth, he and Nick hung out like 80% of the time when Michael was out of town. Working together if there's work to be had that allows for it, drinking together, playing pool or just loitering together. Dean hadn't told Michael that. Nick had become a friend, and the days without Mike are long and lonely.

* * *


	4. Lucifer

* * *

# Lucifer

12 months (3 months)

 

"Heya, Nick!" Dean calls out to the familiar back at the bar. Nick turns around with big smile and Dean does a double take. "Oh, _fuck_. That's just not fair," he says when he slides up on the barstool next to Nick.

"What isn't?" Nick asks bemusedly. 

"How hot you look with glasses on." Dean has a kink, so sue him.

Nick full on blushes and bends his head to look at his beer, an almost shy smile blooming on his face. It’s fucking endearing because Dean’s never seen him like that before. "Shut it. I bet you say that to all the girls."

"I can guarantee you I've never said that to any _girl_ ," Dean answers with a chuckle, eying Nick appreciatively. "And rarely to any boys. But glasses is a weakness of mine and you're rocking yours."

Nick's eyes flick to his face. There’s a hint of insecurity to be seen there, but whatever Dean’s expression tells him alleviates that. Instead his cheeks colours even more prominently and he looks down again, his smile getting wider. "You didn't by any chance break up with my asshole brother, did you?"

"No," Dean answers, ignoring the little thrill caused by making Nick blush. Nick isn't the blushing kind. Dean had seen him pick up chicks and flirt countless of times by now. This is new. 

"In that case, could you please shut down this conversation before I do something stupid like respond in kind."

Dean chuckles. "You call me hot all the time, Nick." It's a bit of an exaggeration. However, Nick _has_ given him compliments on his looks and personality alike on multiple occasions. His eyes rarely give away any attraction though. Not unless he's under the effect of his painkillers and even then he is carefully withholding any leering or come ons. 

"Yes but there's a difference..." Nick says and takes a swig on his beer, looking straight ahead and not at Dean. 

"Oh yeah? And what's that?" Dean asks with a lopsided smirk. He gives himself permission to consider Nick as he would if he was single, eyes drinking in his friend from an X-rated point of view. He’d never act upon it, but he doesn’t consider fantasising to be cheating. Nick’s lower lip is plush and looks to be soft and kissable, a contrast to the ever present scruff he's got going. He’s strong as fuck. Dean knows this from working with him. His hands are big and calloused like Dean’s own, complete with some dirt that can't be washed off no matter how hard you try. A far cry from Michael’s soft moisturised and manicured hands. (Nothing wrong with that.) Unlike Mike with his lean, sculpted body―carefully molded to _look_ as perfect as possible―Nick's muscles are built mostly by labour and Dean thinks he'd have no trouble manhandling Dean. Now _that's_ a thought that makes Dean bite his lip and shift in his seat as his pants start feeling a bit tight around the groin. 

Nick has been staring straight ahead all the while Dean’s been cataloging him as a bed mate. Now he shifts, licks his lips and swallows dryly. He raises his hand to flag down the bartender then turns his head to Dean. "Dean. Don’t."

"What?" Dean asks, feigning innocence. 

Nick snorts, lips quirking into a tiny smile. He looks down on his beer, twirling the glass round and round in slow circles.

Dean turns his attention towards the bartender. He orders a beer for himself and two shots of vodka for the both of them. He spots the mirror then, opposite them behind the bar where all the liquor bottles are. Nick looks up and meets his gaze in the mirror. All the time Dean had been gazing at him with sex in his eyes Nick had been looking at him in the mirror. Maybe he should feel busted or guilty about it, but instead it makes his stomach do a stupid little flip flop. He smirks mischievously and winks at Nick.

“Asshole,” Nick mutters, but he’s smiling so it’s all good.

Much later they’re at another bar and they’re drunk. They’re sitting by a table this time. (That’s using the term generously. Nick’s sprawling on his chair, his arms draped over the backrest of the two chairs on either side of him. Dean’s slouching over the table on his elbows, using one hand to support his head.)

“Mike says you’re lyin’,” Dean offers out of the blue, slurring slightly.

“Wazzat?”

“‘Bout Gabe ‘n Cas bein in town.”

Nick scrunches up his face in a ridiculous grimace. “ _He’s_ the lyin’ one.”

“He also says he walked in on you bangin’ his girlfriend, wha wazzit? Lilly?”

Nick sputters and sits up straight so fast one of the chairs he’d had his arm draped over falls to the floor with a clatter. “Bullshit! That’s not true! _I_ walked in on _him_ with _my > girlfriend. Lilith was _mine__!” He points at Dean with stabbing motions to accentuate words.

“And he says your name is Lucy,” Dean continues, outwardly unruffled. Feigning not giving a shit if Nick or Mike is lying to him.

Nick snorts and runs a hand through his hair. “That part is technically true…” he grumbles, hair sticking up haphazardly.

Dean perks up. “What? Lucy? You trans or sumthin’?”

Nick scrunches up his face in a grimace again, shaking his head. “No, no. We’re all named after angels, jackass. I drew the shortest straw so I go by my middle name instead.”

“There’s an angel named _Lucy_?”

Nick chuckles humorlessly and digs up his wallet. He takes out his driver’s license and throws it on the table in front of Dean. Dean picks it up and looks at it. He has to squint to get enough focus to read, his eyesight blurred by intoxication. Then the letters swim into view.

`Lucifer Nicholas Williams`

Dean’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline. “ _Lucifer_? You’re kidding?” Then he bursts out laughing.

“Yeah, real funny, asshole,” Nick grouses in annoyance and snatches his license back. “An’ don’t you start calling me that or I’ll fuck up that pretty face of yours so bad children will flee in fright at the sight of you, freckles or not,” he adds heatedly with a bone chilling glare.

That only makes Dean laugh harder, gasping for air to collect himself. Nick waits him out with an air of resentment. “Phew. Whoa. Sorry, I just…” Dean sniggers and draws a few deep breaths. “Okay then. That makes Mike right about one of those things. So what about Cas an’ Gabe?” And because Dean’s a little shit at heart he has to waggle his eyebrows and add “Care to shed some _light_ on that?” Nick launches himself across the table and socks Dean _hard_ on the shoulder, setting Dean off laughing again while rubbing at his shoulder. “That’s gonna bruise, you dickwad,” he says grinning.

“Serves you right. And I can prove they were here,” Nick says grumpily, obviously unable to appreciate a good ‘Lightbringer’-joke. He takes up his phone and fiddles with it, then hold it out to Dean to take. The screen shows a selfie of Nick, Gabe, and Cas grinning at the camera outside an ice cream vendor Nick and Dean frequents now and then when the weather is too hot.

“That coulda been taken anytime,” Dean argues.

“Nope. Look on the newspaper rack behind us.”

Dean does. It’s a bit hard to see so he zooms in (blessed be the touch screens). You can’t read the date on the newspaper but you don’t have to. Not with the headline ‘`The K-Mart Killer Caught!`’ in bold letters visible. It had been all over the news when Dean was at the Bahamas. “Sonnova bitch!” So much for playing it cool and not showing what he thinks. Catching Michael in a downright lie like this fucking _hurts_.

“I’ll never lie to you, Dean. I’m withholding a shitton of stuff, but I can promise you that much. I’ll never. ever. lie. to you,” Nick says empathically. He looks sad while he says it. 

* * *


	5. In Hiding

* * *

# In Hiding

12 months (3 months)

* * *

The rest of the week Dean withdraws from Nick and keeps to himself. He throws a passive aggressive fit by walking around naked in the penthouse the days cleaning personnel is scheduled to show up. Let Mike deal with their freak out and complaints, see if Dean cares. Nick sends him mundane texts about three to five times a day that Dean doesn’t respond to. 

`**Nick 06:14:** Docks today, you coming? Trenton is scheduled to get a new shipment.`

`**Nick 14:02:** Don’t eat at Don Papa’s down at main. Worst food I’ve ever had. And whoever names an italian restaurant Don Papa’s anyway? Doesn’t that mean the same thing? Like Father Father’s?`

`**Nick 21:37:** Hanging at Billy’s Bar. Feel free to drop by. I promised myself to never hustle pool again but there’s a bunch of losers playing right now that are practically screaming TAKE OUR MONEY. You’d have a good laugh at these clowns.`

`**Nick 22:49:** You know I said I’d never hustle again? I take that back. 2 sweet fucking K, baby! That’s more than you’d make on a striptease shaking that perky ass of yours.`

`**Nick 02:22:** Or… you COULD make 2k on a lap dance if you come here right now. This motel room sucks. There’s cracks in the ceiling, no TV, and everything smells funky.`

`**Nick 02:24:** Fuck. Unless you’re gonna take me up on that offer, can we pretend I never pressed send on that last one? I blame booze and painkillers.`

And so it goes. (Although, most days there are no middle of the night lap dance proposals.) Little blips on Dean’s radar that lets him know that Nick’s thinking about him. Michael calls twice during the same period.

Nick keeps tabs on Michael’s whereabouts through other channels than Dean. Dean notices that, by how no texts come on the day before Mike is scheduled to be back, and then he shows up one day early. Dean had planned to confront him about the lie, but that’s all shot to hell straight away.

Dean’s leaning at the railing by the glass wall, looking out over the city, when Mike comes home. He doesn’t hear the door and startles when Mike calls out. “Dean, you home?”

Dean turns around, eyebrows raised in surprise, to see Michael enter the big open plan living room/lounge/whatever. Michael drops his bag and when he spots Dean, a look of utter relief washes over him. He crosses the space between them and all but throws himself onto Dean in a clinging embrace. “Heya, Michael. Didn’t think you’d be home until tomorrow evening,” Dean says, arms going around Mike reflexively.

“I’ve had a hell of a week and I’ve missed you like crazy.” Mike turns his head into the crook of Dean’s neck and inhales deeply.

Dean hasn’t showered for two days and gets a bit self-conscious. He smells like stale sweat and smoke. “Don’t do that, I smell like shit.”

“You smell like home...,” Mike says. He leans back far enough to seek Dean’s mouth and yeah. The argument Dean had been gearing up for could wait. Dean’s missed Michael too. Michael tastes minty from the gum he tends to chew. He goes through gum like Dean goes through cigarettes. He rarely chews one for more than a minute before spitting it out. “...and you taste like freedom,” Mike finishes with a smile when they break the kiss.

Dean chuckles. “I probably taste like whiskey and ashtray.”

“You taste like heaven to me.”

Dean blows an amused raspberry. “You’re fucked up. You know that right?”

Michael’s smile widens and he leans his head back into the crook of Dean’s neck. “Maybe. I love you so much, Dean, you have no idea. This week… even when you weren’t there you managed to cheer me up. It’s been all board meetings and tough negotiations and the best parts were three voicemails left by our former cleaning staff.”

Dean smirks and leans his chin on the crown of Mike’s head. “ _Former…_?”

Mike chuckles, still holding on tightly to Dean, thumbs stroking his sides absentmindedly. “Yes. Seems they didn’t enjoy the show. I’ve rehired and the new ones should be able to handle perfection walking around naked. Judging by the interview I did, they’d be cool with doing their job even if they walked in on us having an orgy. Not that we’re planning one, but still. I made the mistake of listening to my voicemail during the board meeting and burst out laughing at Esmeralda’s angry rant―half of which was in Spanish by the way―about you strutting your stuff. I had to excuse myself and leave the room until I had composed myself.”

Dean laughs, stupid butterflies going off in his belly. “I could come along, you know. That way you wouldn’t need to miss me so much.”

“I’d like that very much. I really do. But it’s a bad idea. When I work at the office here I’m about 80% less effective, knowing you’re within reach. So I work about 18 hours a day when I’m away so I can be free to be with you as much as possible when I’m here. My career would probably crumble to dust if I had you around all the time.”

Dean sighs, conflicting emotions warring within. On one hand, Mike’s devoted affection and love had him melting like wax, on the other hand he wants more. He’d take mundane, domestic, and boring if it came with stability and full integration of their lives. This was a long distance relationship and it wore on Dean. “Yeah… I guess it’s enough to have only one of us getting their career shot to pieces,” he laments. “But you’re here now so let’s make the most of it, a’ight?”

* * *

13 months (4 months)

Michael is insatiable and sex with him is great. It’s easy to forget those small discordants that bothers Dean if he thinks too much. It’s all lost in sex and romance. Dean’s swayed to forget about the lie by ‘I love yous’, laughter, and adventures on the rich side of life. Meeting the family doesn’t seem so important anymore while getting a stellar (Mike’s a devoted learner considering Dean’s his first guy) blowjob while looking out over the skylight, or laying poolside at a luxury hotel, Mike’s hand held in his lazily between their lounge chairs and a drink in the other hand. Or beating Mike in a game of tennis (despite his leg screaming in pain) just to be fucked into the mattress later as punishment (reward - if you look at it through Dean’s eyes). It’s so easy to forget that it’s but a temporary respite when Michael takes his time kissing, caressing, _worshipping_ every part of his body like he is some kind of greek god worthy of devotion. He isn’t of course. He’s broken and worthless. Spent. It’s a mystery why Michael wants to be with him in the first place. Mike with his good looks, dark hair and lively hazel green eyes, his charm and his money. Dean must be one hell of a lay.

This scene has played out so many times you’d think he’d be used to it by now. Him, lying in bed, watching Michael put on a tailored monkey suit and morph into his business persona. Only this time he apparently got a call and had to leave a couple of days early. It’s getting harder and harder to act as if he doesn’t care about Mike’s coming and goings.

“So that’s it? You just gonna leave me like some fucking whore who’s fulfilled his purpose for this time?”

“Is that what you think you are to me? That’s so far from the truth you have no idea, Dean.”

“And this?” Dean makes an annoyed gesture at the money on the bedside table.

“Shit, Dean. That’s all I’ve got to give. That’s all I am. A fancy shell of a being with a ton of money and nothing to spend it on until you came along. Is it so hard to understand, that I want to give you what you need, when I can? You don’t have money, but I do. And I love you. It’s not meant like… like payment for a service, dammit.” Mike runs a hand through his hair, turning his neat hairdo into a disarray. He looks hurt and upset. He turns his head and looks out of the window. “Don’t think that. Don’t ever think that. You remember when we first met?”

“Hard to forget considering you poured scalding coffee all over me.”

Mike smiles, looks down on his hands and picks at a hangnail. “Yes. Up until that moment I knew I was straight. Then I ran into you and knew I wasn’t. I was annoyed about spilling my coffee, looked up, and there you were. My heart stuttered and I couldn’t get a word out.”

Despite himself Dean chuckles at the memory. “Yeah. But that might have had something to do with the bad case of Tourette’s I developed at getting first degree burns combined with having my only clean shirt soaked in coffee.”

Mike looks up at him and grins. “I admit, I hadn’t heard that many swear words spoken in a row since Luci lived at home. But no. It wasn’t that.” He walks over to the bed and climbs up to straddle Dean’s lap, then he takes one of the cigarettes from Dean’s pack, lights it (it’s an odd sight since he doesn’t smoke), and hands it to Dean. “I forgot how to breathe. You were so… so beautiful.”

“I was so, so _pissed off_ ,” Dean laughs, taking a deep drag on the cigarette and stroking Mike’s thigh.

“And after you’d gone through your five minute dickwad-jerkface-asshole-fucktard medley I’d finally collected enough brain capacity to talk―” 

Dean’s laughing silently now, shoulders shaking with mirth. “You thought it was a good idea to ask me out for coffee,” Dean interrupts. “Fuck. I didn’t know if I should slug you or laugh.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, I had just spilled mine and still needed to be caffeinated,” Michael laughs, eyes warm at the recollection.

“I was gonna say no. Hell, I was gonna tell you to go drink acid and get the fuck out of my face. But then you went, ‘Oh, shit. Your shirt.’ and just took your own shirt off then and there, offering it to me…” Dean’s grin turns into a soft smile and his stomach flip flops at the memory. He’d been completely blindsided by that move. Michael hadn't been wearing anything underneath either. So there this gorgeous chiseled guy stood looking contrite, handing him a shirt worth two months pay and asking to buy him coffee. Dean might have a temper but he was quick to adapt. 

“That day I started to believe in love at first sight. I’m glad you said yes.”

“So am I. You’re still a jerk for leaving early though. When you gonna be back?”

“Don’t know. In three weeks I think. I’ll try to get back sooner, but don’t get your hopes up.”

“Alright. Give me a kiss and get the hell out of here. Jackass.”

Dean lays staring at the ceiling once Michael’s gone. The apartment is so goddam empty. The uneasy feeling that’s been creeping up on him the last couple of months starts tugging at him again and he can’t shake it. About an hour after Mike’s left his phone chirps. 

`**Nick 16:34:** Worked with a proper idiot today. Asshole dropped a crate on my foot and now I’m fucking limping. Life’s a bitch.`

Something deep inside of Dean sighs in relief. He doesn’t answer the text.

* * *


	6. Partners

* * *

# Partners

13 months (4 months)

 

Dean holds out a week. _Why_ he’s avoiding Nick is a mystery to him though. The texts Nick sends him work like anchors, keeping him from drifting off into the wastelands of his mind. He doesn’t answer any of them but he’s afraid they’ll stop coming. A week is all he can take now that Mike’s gone.

`**Dean 17:02:** There’s a two man bouncer gig at Ambassadeur all week long. I told them my partner would show up at 6. Wear all black. If you don’t come they’ll pair me up with someone else. It’s a good gig though. I’ve worked here before. Plus, free booze after closing. Hop to it if you’re up for it.`

The impulse to say he had a partner to work with just blubbered out of him before he could think. It’s chancy, asking a temporary employer to wait, but he’s got a good rep from his previous time working here. Dean’s nervous. Chances are Nick won’t show up. He got less than an hour to get here. Apart from needing money he’s got no reason to dance to Dean’s pipe. But now the text has been sent and there’s no going back. There’s no reply and Dean deflates inwardly. He doesn’t show it outwardly though, just goes through with the manager what the rules are for the evening, who’s doing what and all that jazz.

Five minutes before 6 Nick steps into the nightclub. His hair is neatly combed back, he’s shaved for once, and as instructed he’s dressed in black military cargo pants and a black lightweight combat shirt, just like Dean himself. (Sadly he’s back to wearing contacts.) They couldn’t have dressed more alike if they had planned it. Inwardly Dean sags in relief. He also feels strangely jubilant for a reason he can’t, or won’t, name. “Heya, Nick,” he calls out from where he’s standing at the bar with the manager.

Nick spots them and strides over with a closelipped smile. He offers his hand to the manager to shake. “Nick Williams. Dean’s partner,” he introduces himself with a note of pride and an air of competence. Dean’s stomach swoops funny and he doesn’t get why.

“I can tell. Joe Hollaway. You two served together?” the manager asks.

“Yes, Sir,” Dean and Nick lies simultaneously and Dean just feels fucking at home. 

“That’s reassuring. I take it you’ve done this before?” Nick nods and the manager goes on. “It’s pretty standard. Don’t let anyone in whom you deem too drunk, too high, or too young. Check ID’s. Keep a head count. We can let in a maximum of 600 guests. If there’s a big queue, make sure the good looking ones get in. Don’t drink alcohol or flirt with guests on the job. You’re allowed short breaks when you need it to take a piss or drink, but not at the same time. Soda or coffee is free. Dean will run the rest by you. Here’s your clickers. I’m gonna go fetch your name tags. Nick was it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

As soon as the manager is out of sight, Nick turns to Dean and socks him hard on his upper arm. “Asshole,” he hisses, keeping his voice low not to draw attention and glares at Dean.

Dean laughs, feeling giddy, and rubs his arm. “Fuck, that’s gonna bruise.”

“You earned it. You could have been dead in a ditch for all I knew.”

“Aww. You worried about me,” Dean teases with a grin.

Nick tilts his head, raises an eyebrow and gives him a dry _the-fuck-do-_ you _-think_ look.

Dean holds up his hands. “Hey. It’s not you, it’s me,” he jokes. It’s only half a joke. It isn’t Nick’s fault Dean’s been avoiding him.

Nick rolls his eyes but his lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “How’s the leg? I can give you a half. It will only dull the pain but it’ll keep your head screwed on if there’s trouble,” Nick asks instead, changing the topic. He doesn’t wait for Dean’s answer before digging up half a painkiller and handing it to Dean. Not that Dean would ever say no to pain relief of any kind. He may be good at moving around like there’s nothing wrong, but it’s all a lie. He takes it gratefully and swallows it down with the coke he has on the bar disk.

The manager comes back with their name tags. They put them on and fall in step with each other as they walk to the door. Once outside they take a sidestep away from each other and settle, standing at ease on either side of the rope divider. It’s unwittingly coordinated, old habits from years of service. Except for one or two early birds people won’t start arriving until around 8. This should be boring as fuck, yet all Dean feels is content and at home.

“I’m sorry,” Nick says after about ten minutes of silence.

“For what?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t tell me,” Nick answers, a note of annoyed impatience filtering through. They’re both watching people pass on the sidewalk, not looking at each other. Dean doesn’t have to ask what he’s talking about. It’s clear as a bell it’s about Dean going AWOL on him.

“Then don’t presume it’s something you did. Chances are I’m just being an asshole or an idiot.”

“Both probably,” Nick mutters.

Dean can’t hold back the stupid grin that keeps wanting to latch itself to his face. “Both probably,” he agrees.

A while later, they’ve let in a couple of people and there’s a new pause with nothing to do, Dean turns his head and looks at Nick. He’s tanned. His hair and brows have paled even more from long hours in the sun. He’s just as relaxed and comfortable in the numbnut job of standing still with hands clasped behind his back as Dean is. Nick seems to feel Dean’s prolonged gaze and turns his head towards Dean, one eyebrow raised in question. “What?”

“It’s good to see you again, Nick. You look…” Good. Great. Fucking _hot_. Dean licks his lips unconsciously. “You’ve shaved,” he offers instead with a small smile. Like that would explain everything he isn’t going to say.

Nick holds his gaze for a moment, searching for something. Then a slow smile spreads on his lips. “So have you.” He averts his gaze, going back to watching the street, that almost secret smile firmly in place. “So have you,” he repeats quietly, almost to himself. And there it is again―that elusive blush―visible despite the tan. Dean doesn’t know how to interpret that, but it does cause his heart to flutter in a way he’s sure it shouldn’t.

* * *


	7. Nick's Unit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I need to take a moment to express my gratitude to my Beta, [mizz_kitty21](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mizz_kitty21) for being such a great support and help. Apart from helping me correct lesser grammar faults, she's the one who makes it obvious to me when there are plot holes, her insightful comments help me flesh out when something's unclear, and she inspires me. <3
> 
> Second off, as usual I've got a soundtrack for the fic. In this one, no song relate directly to a chapter, but for those of you who are curious and like to listen to the songs I listen to while writing this, here's the [Spotify playlist.](https://open.spotify.com/user/coplins/playlist/1hQxXemr7gHdrceHnh6NBt)   
> The song The Addict, by Bo Saris, gets a special mention for its influence on this fic. [YouTube link here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Br2EIkwbtmY)

* * *

# Nick’s Unit

14 months (5 months)

Their lives slot together like two cogs in a wheel, falling back into routine like Dean never withdrew at all. Working together and drinking together afterwards. Dean tries to remember if he’d gone a full week sober since his discharge. He doesn’t think so but can’t make himself care. Financially speaking he doesn’t have to work. Not with how much money Mike leaves him. There’d been five fucking grand on that nightstand last time he left. It’s madness. But if he didn’t work he’d go insane. If he doesn’t do anything, he just gets that feeling of being a dog waiting for its master and he hates that.

He’s gotten to know quite a few people since he came here but most are just white noise, extras in the setting that is his life. There’s nothing to relate to. Oh sure, he can have fun talking to them, but it feels like he’s playing a part. Acting. Not so with Nick. With him it’s easy. A great deal of the time they spend together is spent not talking. It’s a comfortable silence and Dean hasn’t had that with anyone since Benny kicked the bucket eight years ago. Not with Ennis and not with Michael. 

He should never have gotten involved with Ennis. All bushy tailed and spit shined, fresh out of the academy. Too eager to go out and die for his country. He didn’t even live long enough to get that jaded look in his eyes. But long enough for Dean to fall head over heals for the short, hot-headed idiot with his dark skin, warm black eyes and easy smile. Long enough to fall in love, and long enough to never admit it out loud, despite Ennis declaration of love. He hasn’t told Michael he loves him either. Nor did he tell Benny, nor, going way back to his teens - Patrick, the card playing shifty Irish kid in his history class, who taught him how to cheat at poker and how to give good BJs. If he doesn’t admit it out loud it isn’t true and he can’t be hurt.

And yet, here he is, alone. Sitting in the round couch made to seat at least fifteen people, staring absentmindedly into the fireplace. And he’s fucking hurting, because for some reason Nick sent him a text telling him he was busy today and Mike’s only called twice in two weeks. 

There’s only so much to do alone. Mike’s penthouse is huge. This section is only a small part of it but Dean rarely strays away from this space, the bedroom, kitchen, and the nearest bathroom. Going to the other rooms just makes it feel more empty. Thoughts of Sam and dad kept invading his brain despite his best efforts to keep them the fuck away.

His phone rings and he picks up without looking at the caller ID. 

“Dean Winchester speaking.”

“Dean? That you? Wait. Can’t hear a thing for all this fucking noise…”

“Nick?” Nick never calls, he only texts. It’s enough of an anomaly for Dean to get worried while he hear background noise receding. “Nick! Are you alright? Did something happen?” he asks as soon as it seems like Nick would be able to hear him.

“Hell yeah, I’m alright!” And drunk to boot, by the pitch of his voice. “You gotta come here, Dean. A couple of guys from my old unit’s here. They’re great guys and I’d like you to meet ‘em before they ship out again.”

“I don’t want to intrude, Nick.” If they were anything like Dean’s old unit they were practically family. Any time spent with them was precious.

“ _Please_ , Dean. These guys are important to me. I’d really like to introduce you to them. If you don’t like them you can ditch us after one beer, no hard feelings. Please?”

Dean did not expect the urgently pleading of Nick’s tone. Like it was very fucking important that Dean shows up. It makes him feel oddly shy, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Why, Nick. How can I say no when you beg so prettily for me..,” Dean says, making his voice husky and waggling his eyebrows meaningfully despite Nick not being able to see it. 

Oh but he _heard_. 

“You fucking tease. Get your mind out of the gutter and get yourself over here, dickhead,” he says laughing.

“Yeah, yeah. Spoilsport. I’m on my way. Where you at?”

* * *

It turns out Nick is currently staying at an apartment motel that’s semi decent. Dean’s stayed there himself a couple of times in the past. It had one room apartments with queen size beds, a tiny kitchenette, TV, a desk, free wifi, and a table with four chairs. Dean knocks on Nick’s door. The revelry going on inside can be heard from outside so it isn’t hard to find.

Nick opens and a grin splits his face. He’s got a cigarette pinched between his lips and his eyes shines joyfully. “Dean! You made it,” he exclaims, like he hadn’t really thought Dean would show up which is just dumb. He takes the cigarette in his hand and throws his other arm around Dean’s shoulders, tugging him inside. “Guys! This is Dean, the guy I was telling you about. Dean, meet the gang,” he says and gestures with his cigarette wielding hand towards seven men sitting around the small table. Additional chairs have been pilfered from who knows where to make room for everybody. It’s a tight fit and smoke hangs like fog in the air, stinging their eyes. So many bodies in such a small room makes it stifling. Beer and booze is flowing freely and everyone’s spirits are high.

Nick’s arm never leaves his shoulders while he shake hands with everybody. They’re all smiles and welcome. A chair materialises behind Dean and a beer is pushed into his hand. He finds himself seated next to Nick, Nick's arm slung over the backrest of his chair. The men are focused on Dean. 

"So _you’re_ Dean?" someone asks.

"Nicky won't shut up about you," says someone else. 

"Yeah, to hear him tell it, you hung the moon."

"Shut up, jackass!" Nick scolds the last speaker good naturedly with a kick to his shin, then he turns to Dean with an apologetic smile. "Don’t listen to them. They’re exaggerating."

"Hey, Dean. Is it true you pushed Nick off the docks because of his nasty morning temper?"

"Nah. I pushed him into the water for the sheer fun of it," Dean grins and is met by laughter.

"Did Nick tell you about the time he..."

They begin swapping stories about Nick, who feigns mortification, but doesn't try to stop them and laughs along with the rest of them. Dean feels right at home. He's smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. These guys may not be his unit, but they welcome him in like he belongs there. He’s faintly aware that Nick is watching him interact with his friends with a content and happy smile. Nick's arm remains slung around the back of his chair, except for when he gestures while telling a story. When Dean leans back in his chair they touch. He doesn’t avoid doing it. In fact, the drunker he gets he does it more often on purpose. At some point Nick’s thumb starts stroking him lightly on his upper arm when he leans back, and Dean’s heart goes into overdrive. 

Dean tells himself it's the familiarity of it all that brings the reaction. That it's because he feels relaxed and at home. That it's just the loneliness caused by Mike's prolonged absence that makes him hyper aware every time their knees brush. He tells himself it's just a coincidence that he moves his chair a little bit closer each time he comes back from taking a piss, until their thighs are pressed together and each time one of them shifts it makes his belly flutter. Hey, he’s got a high libido―no wonder if his dick does some unwanted thinking at times, right? As long as he doesn't act on it it's alright. He’s not a cheater. 

That’s what he tells himself. Only, it's not his dick stirring in his pants―it's his stomach fluttering, his breath hitching, and his heart beating erratically. He doesn’t dwell on that.

"So Winchester. We all know what a lousy welcome home Nicky got. How was yours?"

" _Lousy_?" Dean protests in mock indignance. "He was met by a gorgeous naked guy who gave him fancy ass whiskey and cigarettes." Dean grins and gives Nick a cheeky wink.

"The way I remember it, it was a gorgeous naked guy with a gun. But close enough," Nick answers, grinning right back. They all laugh at that.

"You’re avoiding the question, Winchester," someone (Haines?) needles. 

"Alright, alright." Dean holds up his hands in a placating gesture, then lights another cigarette and takes a swig on his beer. "My welcome home was pretty standard. You know. The usual. Family had sold the house and disappeared from the face of the earth, covering their tracks to make sure I couldn't find em." He says it jokingly with a grin firmly in place because if he's smiling it doesn't hurt, right? If he pretends he doesn’t care maybe it will become true one day and all the hurt and _anger_ will go away. It's not like dad and Sam were ever that close to him or he wouldn’t have joined the army in the first place. His brothers-in-arms were always his true family, blood relation be damned. 

"Ouch!"  
"That's rough, man."  
"Shit, that's gotta sting."

Dean takes another swallow of beer. "Nah. I ran into Nick’s brother pretty soon after so 'ts all good," he says with a dismissive gesture and a nonchalant smile.

Whether they're fooled or just know not to push the subject can be questioned but someone asks “How’d you meet Nick’s brother?” thankfully steering away from the sensitive family topic.

Dean launches into a vivid retelling of the coffee incident that has them all in stitches, even if Nick is somewhat subdued at his side. After that someone else starts telling how he met his significant other, thankfully stealing the spotlight.

Nick leans in close to his ear, face gone serious, and keeps his voice low for privacy. “You never told me that.” It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s talking about Dean’s family.

“You never asked.”

“I should've.”

“No. You shouldn’t have.”

Nick ignores the end-of-discussion tone of Dean’s voice. “Why haven’t you asked Mikey where they are?”

Dean turns his head towards Nick in puzzlement. He shouldn’t have. Not when they’re this close. Not when it makes their foreheads brush and Nick’s eyes are so goddam emphatic and earnest. He can smell smoke and cheap beer on Nick’s breath. And, _fuck_ , Dean wants to taste him. He fucking hungers for it. “What would he know?”

Nick seems oblivious to Dean’s trouble to keep his thoughts in check. “He’d have done a thorough background check on you the moment you got serious, to know you didn’t have any skeletons in your closet that could come back and bite his career in the ass. If your family can be found he’ll have found them.”

And hell if that doesn’t come as a fucking gut punch. He wants to accuse Nick of lying. He wants to ask Nick if he doesn’t think Mike would have told him if he knew where dad and Sam were. He wants to fucking punch someone. Instead he shrugs and turns his head away. “It’s not important anyway,” he says and takes a swig of his beer, focusing on the story being told by one of the guys. Case dismissed. Nick’s gaze fucking burns his side in its intense scrutiny. He can sense that Nick wants to say something but Dean has slammed up a mental wall so thick it can’t be ignored. After a while Nick gives up and leans back in his chair, joining the general conversation again.

* * *


	8. Travel Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I need to say this, Michael will have something of a redemption arc, once we figure out his motive for his behaviour. He'll do a shitload of wrongs, but so will Dean and Luci. This whole fic is about people who love each other who do each other wrong anyway. All three of them could do well with stopping withholding stuff. :P

* * *

# Travel Plans

14 months (5 months)

The discordant tone in Dean’s relationship with Mike kept getting stronger as months rolled by. Time spent together was still as intense as it ever was and Dean bit his tongue ever so often when the impulse to question or argue came, because he’s a chicken shit at heart and feared the truth. He feared rejection and feared getting hurt. The “Don’t ask, don’t tell”-principle that had hounded Dean’s lovelife for the greatest part of his adult life got another meaning. 

Their one year anniversary came and went unnoticed because Michael had to work despite being home. Dean didn’t know if Mike even knew what day it was. Or if he did, he didn’t find it an important day. Dean stayed at home while Mike went to the office “for a couple of hours”. Dean cooked dinner. He wasn’t good at cooking elaborate things, but he tried, wanting to surprise Mike. In the end he shouldn’t have bothered. Michael called to say he was going to be late and didn’t come home until nearly midnight. Dean never mentioned that it was their anniversary or that he found it important. If he pretended he didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt that Mike didn’t.

Dean worked up the courage to ask―in a roundabout way―about his family. “Hey, Mike? I’ve been thinking about my dad and brother lately. You think you could help me find out where they are?”

“I could try. But why would you want to find them? They could have contacted you through the army if they wanted, or called your cell. They obviously don’t want any contact with you.”

Nice. Just rub it in. “Fuck you.”

“I’m sorry, Dean. I just think you’ll be happier if you don’t try to beat a dead horse. They don’t care about you. I do. So please, give it up.”

Michael never brought up Dean’s family again or in any way indicate that he had helped checking it out. Dean didn’t bring it up either. If he didn’t put Mike on the spot he could pretend he believed Nick had lied.

Nick added to the discordant tone in Michael’s and Dean’s relationship. Mike never asked what Dean did when he was away. If he had Dean would have told a half-truth about jobs done and bars visited, but kept his mouth shut about Nick’s presence. That was not what added stones to his burden. Mike was home one or two weeks and away two or three weeks. More than once he had to fly out a day or two earlier than he had told Dean he’d planned and it happened he came home earlier too. Yet somehow Nick almost always managed to text Dean an hour or two after Mike had left and he never sent a text by mistake when Mike was early. This led to Nick unwittingly giving him yet another sucker punch.

They’re sat on the docks, dangling their legs over the water and smoking after a day’s hard work when Dean brings it up. “So, Nick. You stalking me or somethin’?”

Nick snorts and turns to look at him with an incredulous _what-the-hell-you-talking-bout_ look. “What makes you think that?”

“Since you always text me so soon after Michael’s left.”

“Yeah but I figured I’d get you in trouble if I text you while he’s still there,” Nick answers, misinterpreting the underlying question.

“Doesn’t explain how you know how he comes and goes,” Dean says and blows three smoke rings in a row, studying them as they dissolve.

Nick snorts again, this time in amusement. “Mikey’s a notorious planner. He’s got his travel plans firmly in place a year in advance. I called Don and asked for a copy. I may be disowned, but that doesn’t mean some people won’t bend some rules for me.”

Dean feels nauseated. If this is even remotely true then Mike’s lying to him on a regular basis for no obvious reason whatsoever. “Who’s Don?”

Nick frowns, perplexed. “Don Richardson? Mikey’s secretary?” Dean’s confusion must show because Nick raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You don’t know who Mikey’s secretary is? How do you get a hold of him when he’s away?”

“I call his cell, moron.”

“Huh. Yeah that’d work,” Nick concedes with a shrug and a sturgeon face, like he hadn’t considered that. “He rarely gives out his cell phone number. Not even to girlfriends. Makes it too hard to screen their calls after he’s discarded them. Guess you’re a keeper, huh?” he adds with a little smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I guess… Hey, so can I, can I see it?”

“The travel plan? Sure.” Nick digs up a paper folded to pocket size and hands it over.

Dean hates how clammy his hands feel when he unfolds the paper and scrutinises it. And there it is. Every date and time of Michael’s trips to and fro the city. Black on white every time Mike has lied. Black on white every time he may lie for a couple of more months. In fact, he’d said he’d be back on Wednesday, but according to this he’ll come on Monday. “Can I get a copy of this?”

“Why don’t you just ask Mikey to print you one?”

Dean looks up and meet Nick’s gaze squarely. “Because your brother lies.”

Nick’s eyes widens minutely before a look of understanding overtakes his face. “Sure. We’ll stop by somewhere to make a copy for you,” he says. He sounds tired and disappointed.

Michael comes home on Monday like the travel plan said. He says he couldn’t wait until Wednesday to see Dean. Dean doesn’t call him out on it. On the inside he’s hurt and confused.

* * *


	9. Six Months

* * *

# Six months

15 months (6 months)

 

`**Nick 05:34:** Usual spot. Bring your gun. No questions asked.`

The text wakes Dean up and his rubs his eyes blearily. He stares at it, not knowing what to think of it. Were they going to do something stupid? Had Nick got them some kind of security gig? Was Nick in trouble? A hum of worry buzz under Dean’s skin at the thought that Nick might be in trouble. Continued sleep is no longer a possibility so Dean gets up and gets dressed. Khaki cargo pants and khaki tee, and a button down he leaves open. It’s embarrassing how his wardrobe looks basically the same today as it did when he was a soldier even now that he’s bought a lot of new crap. He can’t help it. He always feels more at home in uniform style clothes. He does wear jeans now and then but tends to get annoyed at the lack of pockets. Then he stuffs his gun in the back of his pants and packs extra ammo in his pockets. He’s ready to go at 05:45. Despite knowing “usual spot” means the docks at 7 he heads out. He can wait there as readily as he can here.

To his surprise Nick’s already there, leaning against his bike with his arms folded over his chest when Dean arrives. “We working security today or something?” Dean asks in lieu of greeting.

Nick just grins and hands him a helmet and a backpack. “We’re not working today. I’ve got a surprise for you. Put this on and get on the bike,” he says and puts his own helmet on, straddling the bike.

All questions are stonewalled and once they’re on the bike, talking isn’t possible anyway. Dean, with his arms around Nick’s waist and chest pressed against his back, ain’t complaining though.

They ride for a long while, leaving the city far behind. At some point they get off the road and drive into the forest. They aren't even following a path, just going on an open expanse between trees. It's slow going as Nick’s monstrosity of a bike isn't made for offroading. Then Nick parks in the middle of nowhere and gets off. "We'll walk the rest of the way," he announces. He seems excited. 

"Nick. Where are we going?"

"You'll see." He gestures for Dean to follow. "Look. I'm a bit of a sap, okay?" he continues as he leads the way. "I've lost a shitton of good things in my life. My family. Friends dying. Lovers dying. And you'll probably think I'm stupid. It probably is. Just humour me on this, okay?" He throws a self conscious look over his shoulder. "I just think the good things in life are worth celebrating, you know? And our friendship is the best thing I've got going in my life right now. And..." They come to a clearing by a small lake and Nick sidesteps to let Dean pass so he can see. Then he stops, crosses an arm over his chest and pulls at his lower lip with the other hand, nervous smile playing on his lips while he watches Dean’s reaction. 

On the other side of the clearing bottles and cans have been placed on a plank resting on two rocks, creating a makeshift shooting range (by Dean’s guess), closer, a big picnic blanket has been laid out, a picnic basket resting on top of it. Dean turns to give Nick a confused look, raising his eyebrows in question. 

"It's stupid. I know it's stupid. You held a gun the first time we met so I figured it'd be fun to do some shooting in honour of that," Nick hastens to explain. "Today it's six months since we met. I wanted to do something special for our anniversary." Nick is blushing so hard his cheeks must be burning up.

It's a whole other kind of sucker punch. Dean feels like he'll either burst out in exhilarated laughter or burst into tears. There’s just not enough air and his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.

Nick misinterpret his stunned silence. "I get it. It's dumb. Who celebrates a six month anniversary of a friendship anyway? But you're important to me. And I wanted to do something special. Please. Just, just humour me?"

Dean lets out a bubbly laugh, feeling lightheaded. "It's not dumb. I'm just stunned. _Christ_ , Nick. You’re one romantic sonnova bitch, you know that?"

Nick chuckles and rubs his neck self-consciously. "Yeah, yeah. Shut up. I know it's probably nothing in comparison to what Mikey did for your one year anniversary but fuck it. I've never been able to compete with him anyway."

If he only knew how wrong he is. Dean doesn’t tell him. To do that would be to admit how fucking much he'd been hurt and it would force him to question his relationship with Michael in a way he doesn’t want to. 

"Nick. It's great. I guess I'm a sap too, huh?" This was skirting at a fine line that shouldn't be crossed but Dean doesn’t care. He feels fucking cherished. It's possible that if he had Facebook, his status would have changed from 'In a relationship' to 'It's complicated' right about now. But he doesn’t have Facebook and he doesn’t _do_ 'complicated', so he pretends the stirring in his chest is purely platonic and that this doesn't feel like a date. 

Nick grins. His nervousness receding. “Yeah?" He walks over to the blanket and sits down, motioning for Dean to join him. "I hadn't figured out until late night yesterday what I wanted to do... I couldn't get my hands on any good whiskey, couldn't afford it, but..." He takes out a bottle of fine champagne and two glasses from the basket as Dean sits down. His eyes sparks with mischief when he uncorks the bottle carefully with a soft fizz, spilling nothing. He pours for the both of them and hands Dean a glass before raising his own. "To us."

"To us," Dean echoes and takes a sip. "This is some fine shit. If you couldn’t afford whiskey, how'd you afford this?"

"I didn't. I was walking around trying to figure out what to do for today when I passed by the big art gallery on main." Nick takes out a box from the basket and removes the lid. It's full of canapés. "There was a vernissage going on and they were serving champagne and canapés. So I swiped a server's apron and mixed with the staff, nicking two trays of canapés and a crate of champagne. The rest of the bottles are in the lake to keep cool."

Dean laughs delightedly. "You stole for me?" Nick's unapologetic smirk elicit another laugh. "I shouldn't condone that but I feel oddly honoured and proud of you."

Nick looks away and takes a sip from his glass. "It doesn't even scratch the surface of what I'd do for you," he says quietly, like it's a confession he doesn’t want to make. Then he looks back and says in a much louder voice, grazing over the confession he just made "Let's dig in. I haven't had breakfast yet."

* * *

The day is hot. They've shot at cans and bottles, talked about everything and nothing, and laid down watching clouds pass by when Dean slaps Nick on the thigh. "I'm fucking melting. Come on, let's take a dip." He gets up and sheds his clothes, as unbothered by being nude in front of Nick as the day they met. Nick doesn’t follow him when he makes his way down to the lake and dives in. The cool water is fucking heaven to his overheated body. His hair covers his eyes when he breaks the surface. It's gotten long and soon it'll be as long as Sam’s the last time he saw him. "You coming or what?" he yells.

"I think I'll pass."

"Come _on_. You must be burning up in this heat. You shy or something?"

Nick shifts uncomfortably on the blanket. "Dean. That grenade fucked me up pretty bad."

Dean doesn’t relent. "So what? Have you _seen_ my leg? You got a colostomy bag you're trying to hide?"

Nick frowns. "What? No! I just..."

"Then stop making excuses. Get your nekkid butt in here." When Nick doesn’t budge Dean rolls his eyes. " _Christ_! I'll swim a few laps and promise not to peek. Just come cool down before you suffer heat exhaustion." Dean turns and starts swimming out in the lake. When he turns Nick’s in the water, already submerged too far to see his body. "Feels good, huh?" he yells, treading water. 

"Fucking fantastic," Nick admits and makes his way to join Dean. He swims a lap alongside Dean and then when Dean turns to do another lap he stays behind. When Dean turns again he's already up and dressed. Dean gets out of the water, pushes his hair out of his face and goes to join Nick on the blanket. 

He lights a cigarette and turns his head towards the sun, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of the sun drying his naked body while he smokes."'Ts not fair. All those hook ups getting to see you naked but I don't."

"They don’t."

"Come again?"

"Why'd you think I almost only steal quick bathroom or alley fucks? When I follow a chick home I never take my shirt off and keep the lights off."

"You serious?" Dean turns his head to squint at Nick who nods. "Fuck. Just because of that I'm gonna make it my life's mission to get you naked," Dean says with a smirk. 

Nick snorts. "Not gonna happen."

Dean chuckles. _We'll see about that,_ he thinks to himself.

* * *


	10. Hunter & Sons

* * *

# Hunter & Sons

15 months (6 months)

 

Later the same week they're at a bar, just starting on their first beer. "What’s up with you? You’ve been broody all day," Nick asks. 

Dean hesitates before answering. "Do you... do you ever feel like life wasn't supposed to be this way?"

Nick raises an eyebrow and gives him a look as dry as the Sahara desert. Practically silently screaming at Dean that he’s stupid for even asking. Which, yeah. He’s got a point. But that’s not what Dean meant.

"No, no. I mean... sometimes I feel like something went wrong," Dean tries to explain. "Like, I dunno. You know those blocks with row upon row of identical houses? And one of them is yours. So you’re driving home and take a turn up one of the streets, but you turn too early so you never find your house. Then you give up and just pick a house randomly. Why not, right? They all look the same anyway. But details are off. Just small things that make it not _your_ life."

Nick lets out a bemused chuckle and look at him like he’s lost it. "Are you _high_?"

Dean makes a dismissive gesture. "Forget it. It's fucked up anyway."

"Wait. You’re being serious. I'm sorry. Go on."

Dean's of a mind of just let it go. But he finds he really wants to talk about it. To tell Nick what he's never told anyone before. So he does. "I'm fucked up, Nick. I've had these messed up dreams all my life. Not as often now as when I was in my late teens and early twenties. But they still come ever so often. And they feel real, you know? Like they're memories instead of dreams. But they never happened in real life."

"What kind of dreams," Nick asks, serious now.

"About my family..." Dean drums his fingers on the table top, thinking. "You up for a drive? I want to show you something. Something very fucking personal."

* * *

They drive into the abandoned lot and stop. Dean gets off and walks up to the rusty car wreck of his dad’s old car. He pats the Impala on the hood. "This is Baby. In real life nobody ever called her that. She’s been standing here, rusting away, since I was eight. Yet I remember driving her in pristine condition with Sam, my brother, by my side. Just us against the world. In my dream-memories I love this car. In reality the mere sight of it makes me sick to my stomach."

Nick remains quiet and watches Dean with a curious but otherwise neutral expression. 

Dean gets into the passenger seat and motions for Nick to join him in the driver’s seat. They sit in silence. For how long, Dean can't tell. Nick seems to pick up on Dean’s need to take it in his own pace. The car smells of mould, earth and moss. He’s slept here when money ran short on numerous occasions before Mike gave him keys to the apartment. Finally Dean speaks. His voice sounds far off even to himself. "I love Sam. Almost bordering on incestuously much. I can’t imagine life without him. Without him I have no purpose. At least that's what these false memories tell me. The first year in the army I missed him so much it was hard to breathe. Then I came home and..." he trails off, looking out of the side window, away from Nick. "That was never real. Every time I lay eyes on my brother after being away I'm taken aback because it's not the Sam from my dreams." Dean's face contorts in an ugly grimace. "I fucking _hate_ that bratty piece of shit!"

Nick says nothing. The only sound that punctuates Dean's confessions is the sound of their breathing and a few crickets outside. 

Dean reigns in the ugly feeling and takes a deep breath. "I was excited about getting a little brother, you know? Putting my ear to mom's stomach, trying to hear and feel him. Talking to him. But then he was born and I... it's like I just ceased to exist to mom and dad. It was all about Sammy. He was always sick, always screaming. I was sent to play outdoors because I might wake him up if he was sleeping or be in the way if he wasn't. If I cried I was told to walk it off, if I complained I was told to grow up. It was like living in one giant shadow I couldn't get out of. Then he got older..." Dean falls quiet again. He can feel Nick looking at him but doesn't turn to meet that gaze. 

"I... my parents. They were kinda big on booze. Both of them. They ran a successful investment business together that had been in our family for generations. It didn't stop them from drinking." Dean takes a deep breath, then another. He reaches out and traces the spiderweb indentation of broken glass in front of him on the windshield. "Dad got a call from someone from the local pub who was worried 'cause mom had stumbled out of there blind drunk, barely able to stand. So dad packed us into the car to go look for her..." Dean points at the back seat. "Sam was in the back seat, sleeping. He was four. I was eight. It was pitch black outside. I sat here... I kept fiddling with the radio, wanting to listen to pop music and dad kept slapping my hand away, wanting to keep the rock music on. We were arguing ‘cause I was a stubborn ass little shit and desperate for attention of any kind."

Dean swallows. He looks down on his lap, picks on a hangnail. He looks up, right at Nick this time, one hand goes to touch the familiar indentation in the windshield again. "She just stepped out right in front of us. Dad didn’t stand a chance to stop in time even though he slammed on the breaks." Dean turns his head to look at the windshield, fanning out his hand over the indentation. "It felt like time slowed down. She hit the fender on this side and went flying over the hood. She looked up, straight at me. Not with an expression of pain as you might think, but of surprise. And then her head hit the windshield here and split right open like a fucking watermelon before she went over the roof."

Dean swallows again. Unshed tears sting at his eyes. Still, after all this time, the memory is hard to bear. "I don't remember much after that. My world got stuck on repeat. Meeting mom's eyes right before her head all but exploded. I kept seeing it before my inner eye. Over and over and _over_. I still wake up from nightmares about it sometimes."

Dean chuckles humorlessly and shakes his head. "Dad blamed me. If I hadn't argued about the music it wouldn’t have happened. For many years I believed him. I think Sam did too and maybe that's why we ended up like we did. Hating each other and hurting each other. If the world was centered around Sam before the accident it was nothing compared to after. It was all ' _why can't you be more like your brother_ '. I got straight A's? Not a peep. Sam got straight A's? Dad'd brag about it to the fucking neighbours. And Sam would act like a little shit. Like, he'd come into my room, grab my favourite vinyl and look at me. When I told him to put it down he'd break it with a disdainful fucking smirk on his little shithead face. Naturally, I beat the crap outta him and dad did the same to me. Sam stood behind dad with his eyes narrowed, smirking in satisfied fucking malice. Like it was worth taking a black eye from me just to see me beaten and yelled at. If dad turned around he was suddenly all puppy eyes and wobbly lip."

The old resentment comes pouring out of old cracks. Poison soaked into the marrow of Dean’s bones bleeds into thoughts and words, full of bitterness. “He’d walk by and pinch me or jab at me and he’d be smart about it. When I turned around to cuff him I’d always get caught, but nobody ever saw _him_ do anything. Dad could be at the stove with his back turned while we sat at the table. Sammy would just reach over and tip my glass then sit there and look innocent while dad yelled at me for being clumsy. Sam would hide my stuff so I’d turn the whole house upside down looking for it, then he’d put it in clear view at last minute and I’d get yelled at for being sloppy and not keeping track of my stuff. But precious little Sammy could do no wrong.”

“I learned to do my homework at school before heading home lest he’d fuck it up somehow. Teachers loved me. I was good in school. But I was constantly angry. Got into fights during recess. Because I was such a polite, hard working _student_ I never got expelled or shit like that. Nothing that went on record. But my dad got a lot of phonecalls, more proof of how useless I was in comparison to Sam. And the little shit would always be smirking at me in the background like he got off on seeing me in trouble.”

“You know what the worst part is?” Dean looks at Nick, picking at a loose thread on his shirt absently. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Because of the dreams I kept having about Sam and me, about how it could have been― _should_ have been―I kept forgiving him. He’d give me a hug, or curl up beside me watching a movie, or play ball with me and I’d hope that we could be brothers again. For real. I never gave up on that. Even after I left I wrote him once, twice a month all through my eleven years of service. I never once got a reply. Yet I hoped. I don’t need the ‘us against the world’ part. Just…” Dean trails off and bites dejectedly on a nail. He hated Sam so much it burned like acid in his veins when he thought about it, but he didn’t _want_ to hate him.

“Did you ever get him back?” Nick asks, speaking up for the first time since they got here.

“Yes. Once. Just before I left for the army. You’re not gonna like it considering whatever went down between you and Mike with that Lilith chick.”

Nick raises a brow, prompting him to go on.

“I’m gay, right? Not bi. Not even close.” On its own accord Dean’s hand goes out to stroke the back of Nick’s hand lying unmoving on the seat between them. Dean looks at their hands as he trails his fingers slowly up and down Nick’s hand. “There’s never been any doubt in me who I want touching me.” His brain finally catches up on the implications of what he’s doing and he withdraws his hand and interlaces his fingers in his lap to stop himself from overstepping again. Now’s not the time for Freudian slips. Nick doesn’t comment. “But enough friction things gonna happen no matter what.”

Dean draws a deep breath, steeling himself for this part of the confession. What he did was ugly, not to mention illegal since the girl was sixteen and he was twenty. “Alright. So Sam was head over heels for this girl. I don’t even remember her name. Amy? Amelia? Who cares. Sam was taking her to the prom and he was floating on clouds for weeks. So on prom night I lured her away from the revelry, switching on the Winchester charm. I took her someplace I knew Sam would find us when he came looking for her. Then I seduced her. Only time I’ve slept with a girl. When Sam found us she was riding me like a bronco, chanting my name like a fucking prayer. You should have seen the look on his face. Pure devastation. A bullet right in the heart.” Dean laughs mirthlessly. “I should have felt guilty about it. I should have. Instead it gave me such fierce satisfaction it felt my chest would explode. I’m pretty sure that was what pushed me over.”

“And I don’t _really_ believe in vengeance. I want to believe it’s wrong. Hurting someone for hurting you don’t undo any hurt caused. I try to be above that. But it’s like that’s just philosophy, and that anger I still got brewing deep down calls for sacrifices. There’s an ugly need calling for me to retaliate. So I’ve become the king of denial. If I don’t admit to loving someone they can’t hurt me. If I don’t acknowledge a hurt there’s no need to take a stand. If… Yeah. I don’t believe anyone could like me if I gave in to my urges to strike back. And if nobody else can like me I can hardly like myself, now can I? So, self-preservatory denial.”

“There you have it,” Dean says, plastering on a fake lighthearted smile. “The true level of fucked-uppedness of Dean Winchester. I’ve never told anyone else this for obvious reasons, and I understand if you want nothing to do with me after this. But I’d ask you to please at least give me a ride home before you tell me to fuck off.”

Nick hums, his face gives nothing away. Dean thinks it should have been cathartic to get this off his chest, but it isn’t. There’s just the horrible ball of ice in his gut, worry that he’s fucked up what they’ve got going. If so he’s got himself to blame. “You no longer think you killed your mom?”

That’s an unexpected question. “No. Of course not. She was the one to drink herself blind drunk and step out in front of a moving vehicle. If I ever do the same you can bet your goddam ass it isn’t the fault of a child in the passenger seat of said vehicle. And dad was the one driving. He should have been watching the road, not me. I don’t think he could have stopped in time even if he’d been aware of the danger and on high alert, but if anyone’s to blame it was mom and dad. To put that on my shoulders was just sick.”

Nick nods, agreeing with the sentiment. He purses his lips and looks at his nails. “Winchester isn’t that uncommon as a surname so I didn’t realise… your dad… does he happen to be John Winchester, owner of ‘Hunter & Sons - Family Business’?”

Another totally unexpected question. “Yeah. He was. Drove the company to ruins after mom died. Wait. Do you know him?”

“No. I know _of_ him,” Nick answers tiredly. “Mikey knows this,” he states, closing his eyes and rubbing a hand over his face.

“Um… I dunno? He never asked and I never said,” Dean answers, feeling more confused by the second, wondering what the hell that has to do with anything.

“No. He knows it, he knows you’re the son of John Winchester,” Nick states again, squeezing his eyes shut and fanning out the hand over his face like he tries to cover it all. His other hand digs into his thigh. 

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

Nick doesn’t answer the question. “Let’s go home. I’ve got a major headache. I’ve got to…” Nick gets out of the car and stalks to his bike, putting his helmet on and straddles it, face bent down, waiting for Dean.

Out of all the things Dean’s said tonight it’s utterly confusing that his father’s identity is what seems to have made Nick act like this. Confusion doesn’t begin to to describe what Dean’s feeling.

The next morning he doesn’t expect to hear from Nick. Hell, he isn’t expecting to hear from him ever again. But like clockwork Nick texts. Dean keeps waiting for Nick to say something about what happened, but Nick acts like nothing’s changed. The anticipated rejection never comes. The only difference is that Dean catches Nick looking at him sometimes with a sad and disappointed look on his face.

* * *

The whole thing is really confusing and the next time Michael comes around Dean can’t help but bring it up while they’re walking hand in hand on the beach. “Say… have you ever heard of a company named ‘Hunter & Sons - Family Business’?”

Michael pulls the corner of his lips down in a sturgeon face and shakes his head, looking down on the sand rather than at Dean. “No. Can’t say that I have.”

But he has. This time the lie is apparent. Not only in his body language, but in the fact that Dean’s random question isn’t met with a ‘Why are you asking?’ or any other follow up question. The question is _why_?

* * *


	11. That's Cute

* * *

# That’s Cute

_(As time goes by…)_

“What do you want out of a relationship?” Nick asks one day when they’re working the bouncer gig at Ambassadeur, both of them standing at ease on either side of the rope divider. There’s currently a lull that allows for private conversations. By now they’ve built enough of a reputation as a reliable tag team that they’ll be the first one’s called when temporary staff is needed. So between three night clubs, two employers at the harbour, one moving firm, and one security firm, they’ve got pretty regular work. 

“I dunno. The usual I guess. To share my life with someone that I can count on. To feel valued and special even when life is boring and repetitive. I want butterflies in my stomach and electricity at his touch. Maybe get married. I want domesticity.” Dean shrugs. “I guess I want someone who makes me feel like I’m on the adventure of a lifetime even if all we do is argue about the remote because I have a sick thing for Ricki Lake reruns and _nobody_ else has that.”

Nick laughs. “True. But with enough painkillers or weed anything goes. So does Mikey do all that for you? Or are you just with him for the money?”

Dean scowls, sidesteps and socks him on the upper arm, which only causes Nick to laugh. "What the hell, Nick? You think I give two shits about the _money_? You think I'm a fucking gold digger?" Dean's actually kinda hurt by Nick thinking that. 

Nick holds up his hands in surrender, smiling in a way that doesn’t look a single bit apologetic. "Calm down, Dean. I wouldn't judge you if you were. Just asking. Does Mikey give you what you want from a relationship?"

No. Things that had been flattering from the beginning now seemed off. Like how Dean couldn’t join him when he went away because he'd be too much of a distraction. In light of all of Mike’s lies that just felt like another lie. Then there was the fact that Mike hadn’t introduced him to a single friend or family member. Dean had called his office once after Nick’s and his conversation about travel plans. Mike had thrown a fit. Dean suspected he got Michael’s cell number _not_ to be able to always reach him, but so he could be kept a secret. That suspicion kept growing each day and it didn’t sit well with Dean. He may be king of denial but sooner or later the levee’s gonna break. Stuffing the uneasy feeling aside Dean answers. "It's hard to get some kind of domesticity what with this long distance bullshit going on." He shrugs a shoulder. "Michael says he loves me."

"Maybe he does," Nick offers. 

" _Maybe_?"

"Yeah," Nick says with a good natured smile. "Mikey has a short attention span when it comes to romances, always did. Most of his dalliances never last longer than a month. And look at you two, still going strong. You must have swept him off his feet like a kick to the groin." Nick has an oddly satisfied look on his face. 

Dean laughs. "You look strangely happy about it."

"I'm envisioning Mikey getting kicked in the groin," Nick says with a smirk and winks at Dean, making Dean laugh again. 

Then there's a gaggle of girls coming, cutting their conversation short while they check IDs and let the girls in. Soon the real rush will start, making any private conversations impossible until closing, but after the girls have entered the club there's another lull so Dean takes the opportunity to ask Nick questions. "How bout you, huh? We've known each other for quite a while now and I've seen you pick up a shitton of girls, but you've never dated anyone. You don’t want a relationship?"

Nick chuckles and looks at him funny, saying nothing.

"It's not your scars holding you back is it? Cuz I gotta tell ya, it shouldn't. You’re awesome and anyone would be lucky to have ya," Dean needles. 

Nick’s lips twitch in amusement but he still doesn't answer, just keeps watching Dean with a warm twinkle in his eyes. 

"What? You saving yourself for the right one or something?" Dean persists, unwilling to let the subject go.

"You might say that," Nick answers, humour lacing his voice. He tilts his head and scrutinises Dean with a bemused smile. "You really don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

Nick―master of stonewalling―ignores the question. "That's… that’s actually kinda cute. You’re cute, Dean," he says instead. 

Dean, stupid fuck as he is, feels his cheeks heating up. "Cute?" he exclaims with mock indignance. "I'm not _cute_.” Then, with a pause for effect he petulantly says “I'm pretty." The statement makes Nick laugh so Dean rolls with it. "I'm beautiful. Gorgeous. Ruggedly handsome even."

"Not to mention humble," Nick adds with another laugh. 

"Hey! Where's the lie?" Dean protests and grins. 

"There's no lie," Nick concedes with a responding grin and an odd spark in his eyes. 

Dean can’t get his heart to calm down for an hour afterwards and his stomach keeps doing giddy flip flops he can’t (won't) explain.

* * *


	12. Malfunctioning Lighter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. A chapter was posted out of order. Should be fixed now. Posting another one to make up for those who read the faulty chapter and got a spoiler.

* * *

# Malfunctioning Lighter

_(As time goes by…)_

 

Some things can’t be unseen. 

Dean loves watching Nick pick up chicks. He’s yet to see him go for a guy, even if Nick’s a self-proclaimed bisexual. Occasionally it will seem like he’s attracted to Dean, but Dean's started to think he's reading too much into it, because of his own growing attraction he can’t deny to himself any longer. Especially not when he’s watching Nick pick up chicks. 

The way Nick switches on his charm, gaze going all heated and intent. There’s something primal about him yet still warm and intimate. And the way he crowds close to the woman when she's shown interest. He'll let his shoulders curve inward, boxing her in, dominating her without using force. His big hands fanning out over her back, gliding downward. It has Dean weak at the knees and makes his pants tight over the groin. The show stops there as Nick and the woman tend to disappear to somewhere secluded at that point. Nick will be back awhile later, all flushed and ruffled, bright eyed and sated. Looking so hot Dean doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

Of course Dean pretends to be unaffected. He saves the images for when he gets home. Once at home he'll jerk off at the thought of being the subject of Nick’s efforts. But hey! If he doesn’t act on it, it isn’t cheating. Michael does a remarkable job of dispelling these images when he gets home anyway. It’s not Dean’s fault Mike leaves him all alone for so long. And it’s not like it’s the first time Dean’s fantasised about a friend or a colleague while being in a relationship. He’s got a high libido and there’s always an extra thrill of having sex with someone new, or to just think about it. As long as he reserves the right to touch for his boyfriend his conscience isn’t affected by it.

Dean doesn’t think Nick’s aware of Dean’s mounting attraction. Until he fails miserably to hide it. 

Nick’s gone off with some chick when the crowd in the bar starts getting rowdy. Dean decides to nip out for a cigarette as to not get involved if it breaks into a fight. He goes around the corner, not wanting to be right in front of the entrance in case someone is thrown out. He goes to Nick’s bike, parked by the back corner of the building, while trying to light his cigarette as he goes, only the fucking lighter won't cooperate. He leans against the bike, hears something, looks up and there they are. 

Nick has the woman leaned up with her chest against the wall and her skirt hiked up. He’s draped against her, fucking her from behind, one arm around her midriff and the other hand pressed against her mouth to muffle her moans. His pants are open but not pulled down so the slaps of their bodies are down to a minimum. 

They've already seen him, both looking at him. He should stutter some apology and go away but he doesn't. He must look a fool with his mouth gone dry and hanging open, unlit cigarette clinging precariously between his lips and all blood swiftly rushing to his groin. 

The position brings back memories of rough rushed hookups with fellow soldiers in secluded corners, often with only spit as lubrication and tinged with the extra thrill of fear of getting caught. Base, dirty, and animalistic. All want and need, often hurting quite a bit due to the lack of time, proper prep and lubrication. And Dean fucking _loves_ that. Oh he loves sex any way he gets it, but that way more than anything and Mike never fucks that way, never makes it feel like they're two lions mating.

Nick’s eyes are practically aglow with arousal, cheeks flushed from exertion and teeth baring in a fierce smile―something between 'nice to see you' and 'stay the fuck away from my female or I'll rip you to shreds'―when he looks at Dean. "You mind him watching, sweetheart?" he asks the woman and removes the hand covering her mouth to allow her to answer. 

"Not at all,” she answers him, her face telling Dean that if anything, the opposite is true. “You like what you see, cowboy?” she asks Dean with a wicked gleam in her eye, confirming that she indeed gets off on it.

Dean, stunned into obedience, answers in a voice gone rough, “Yeah…”

Nick chuckles darkly and turns his attention back to the woman, covering her mouth again and letting his other hand slide down under her skirt to massage her clitoris while grinding into her in slow rolling motions. It doesn’t take long before she squeezes her eyes shut and start bucking and twitching, her screams muffled by Nick’s hand as she comes.

But Dean’s not paying attention to the woman, he’s mesmerized by Nick. By how savage and intense he looks―fully intent on the woman, by how his eyes are glazed by lust and his muscles play under the tee and on his strong arms. Dean’s so hard it hurts. He presses a hand over his dick to alleviate some of the strain but ends up stroking himself outside of his jeans instead.

When the woman goes lax and pliant Nick moves his hands to grip her hips and start fucking her in earnest, chasing his own orgasm. He comes with a bitten off hiss and if Dean had had just a little more pressure on his cock he would have followed Nick over. As it stands, Dean’s panting as harshly as Nick and the woman. Nick pulls out, takes off the condom and drops it on the ground, tucks himself in and helps the woman straighten her clothes. They share a few sloppy kisses and mumble too lowly for Dean to hear. 

The woman extracts herself from Nick and gives Dean a teasing smirk. “Jealous, cowboy?”

“Yeah. You could say that…” Dean croaks.

The woman giggles in delight and then walks away, throwing a kiss at Dean before turning the corner and disappearing.

Nick pulls up his fly and fishes up his pack of cigarettes and lighter from his pocket, lights a cigarette and pockets the pack again. He has that loose post-coital relaxed posture and a smug smirk on his lips. He takes a drag on the cigarette and tips his head back, watching Dean with self-satisfied amusement from under half-lidded eyes. “Jealous, huh? I thought you said you weren’t into chicks?”

“I’m not,” Dean answers automatically since his brain still ain’t getting enough blood and he’s a fucking dumbass. He realises what he just admitted to and with that comes the realisation that he’s still gripping his goddam fucking hardon. _Fuck!_ He lets go like he’d burned himself, squeezes his eyes shut and bends his head towards the ground. His cheeks are burning so hot he’s probably redder than a goddam traffic light. Nick’s dark chuckle doesn’t make it better. If the ground had any plans on ever opening and swallowing him up - _now_ would be a real fucking good time to do it.

But no. No sinkholes coming to rescue him from mortification this time. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, spotting the cigarette he’d been trying to light lying on the ground between his feet, dropped and forgotten. He picks it up, not looking at Nick, grabs his lighter and resumes his tries to get the fucking Bic to work. He’s still leaned against Nick’s bike, almost sitting with how far his legs have splayed during the time he kept touching himself at the sight of Nick fucking. * _chick, chick, chick_ * The fucking lighter just won't work. Dean finally looks up to find Nick staring at him, smug smile firmly in place. “Dude. Can you give me a light?” Dean asks.

Nick saunters up to him slowly, with the self-confident swagger of a big cat. The look in his eyes is one Dean had fantasised about a number of times but never thought he'd be on the receiving end of. That heated intent look he gives the women when he knows they want him and it's making Dean’s heart go into overdrive, butterflies fluttering madly in his stomach. 

Dean puts his cigarette in his mouth and keeps waiting for Nick to take up his lighter, but he doesn’t. Instead he has his burning cigarette pinched between his lips, closelipped amused smile tugging at the corners. He slowly, deliberately, puts his hands on either side of Dean on the bike and leans in, doing that thing he does, when he curves his shoulders inward, boxing Dean in, dominating by sheer presence. 

Dean’s either too drunk or not drunk enough for this, bending backwards and splaying his legs wider. To avoid Nick or give him better access is better left unsaid. Either way Nick steps in close enough that he brushes the inside of Dean’s thighs. The touch sparks like electricity through Dean’s body. This close Dean can smell him, even through the smoke. Nick smells like sex, sweat, and faintly of his cologne, faded through the day but still there.

Nick aligns their cigarettes so the burning part of his touches Dean’s, all the while keeping his eyes locked with Dean’s. There’s a devilish gleam in his eyes―amused, teasing, mocking. Dean almost forgets that he needs to inhale for his cigarette to start burning. How many times hasn't Dean lit cigarettes like this, how many times haven't _they_ lit cigarettes like this? Yet never before has it felt this intimate, like a substitute for a kiss. It's _absurd._

As Dean finally gets his cigarette to burn Nick removes his own cigarette from his mouth and leans even closer and to the side, so close Dean feels Nick’s breath skirting along the line of his neck, making goosebumps erupt all the way from his scalp and down his arm. Dean’s never cheated in his life, but _gods_ , he wants to. Right now he wants to badly. “I’m such a good brother to him and Mikey doesn’t even know it…” Nick says quietly then pushes himself away from Dean and turns his back. “I’m gonna take a piss,” he says louder. “Let’s skip this joint and head to Castaway to play pool when I get back.” And with that Nick leaves, giving Dean the time and space he needs to will his erection away and smoke his cig with shaky breaths.

He’s mortified about reacting so fucking strongly. What is he? Some goddam teenager watching his first porno? What the hell happened to feigning nonchalance and playing it cool? This was way out of proportion for how an almost 32 year old man should react (to his boyfriend’s brother no less!). No wonder Nick had looked so amused.

When Nick returns he acts as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. That should be comforting. Yet for some reason Dean’s disappointed.

* * *


	13. The Lies

* * *

# The Lies

22 months (13 months)

_Nick’s hand trails upward along his naked side. His tongue swirls around Dean’s belly button. It tickles and Dean sucks in a breath and bites his lip not to laugh. Nick works his way upward with kisses, darting his tongue out to taste the salty skin with each kiss. He sucks one of Dean’s nipples into his mouth, nibbles lightly, making Dean gasp and roll his hips to get some friction._

“Come on, baby. Quit being such a tease and just fuck me already,” Dean whines and puts his hand down to stroke Nick’s cheekbone, but it's all wrong, the mole that should have been there isn't. 

“Shit, soldier. You’re so impatient,” his lover says, voice pitched too deep and clear, jarring Dean enough to open his eyes and look down. It’s Michael of course. Dark haired and handsome, eyes warm and full of humour, pupils lustblown. 

It takes a beat for Dean to mentally adjust. He loves wake up calls like this, he _does_. But dreaming of sex with one guy to wake up with another is a bit unsettling. There’s a moment of confusion, then of panic about having used the wrong name. But no. He said ‘baby’ didn’t he? He never calls Mike endearments. It’s not incriminating though. “Yeah, I am. So get to it, jackass.”

Michael grins excitedly. For some reason he likes that Dean calls him names. It’s a goddam turn-on for him. Dean doesn’t do it out of malice. It’s part because it does turn Mike on. It’s part self defence. The shield of zero-fucks-given over his heart. _I can't be hurt if I don't care_ , he thinks. Lately though…

“Pace yourself, soldier. You’re mine and I'll take all the time I want,” Mike teases and suckles at his nipple, pinching the other one lightly. They’re _so_ sensitive and Dean gasps, bites his lip and makes a face of frustration. He ruts against Mike’s stomach, leaking precome. Michael chuckles darkly and crawls higher. He supports himself on bent arms over Dean, diminishing the friction Dean’s getting. “You’re so gorgeous and needy. And all for me.” He raises his hips, holding himself out of reach when Dean pushes up to press his dick against him. Dean collapses back with a petulant whine. 

"Don’t be a bitch, Mike. Gimme!” Dean _is_ needy when he wakes up. He’s generally bad tempered and horny before the fog of sleep has dissipated. He’s always appreciated waking up by someone pawing at him, kissing him, or blowing him. If he could wake up midfuck it would be even better. Best possible start of a day. He gets with the program instantly. Whether it was a boyfriend or a random pick up back when he was single didn’t matter much. Something he kept _really_ quiet about when general discussions of consent came up. He’s seen too many women struggle in the aftermath of rape―victims of war and fellow female soldiers―not to understand that if he were to tell people that one of his best sexual experiences was falling asleep at a party just to wake up from a total stranger kissing and groping him, it would reflect badly on him. _Fuck_ , that had been so hot. The guy wasn’t even very attractive but Dean got turned on by the circumstances. The only words spoken then was him saying “Condom or I'll break your face.” But that was just it. He is bigger, stronger, and a better fighter than most people who'd think to feel him up without asking for permission. He can defend himself. Plus he’s very physical―enjoying touch by friends and strangers alike. Wanting to be woken up by sex, on his level at least, is a fetish. It’s something the world thinks is wrong with him, so he keeps his mouth shut about it until people discover it by themselves. And Mike discovered it early on. Which is great. _But_. Dean wants it _right fucking now_ when he wakes up like this, straight from a wet dream. And Mike likes to take his time. Which isn't bad per se. If Dean just got to get off quickly he can go on for hours afterwards. But Michael’s a little teasing shit that enjoys seeing his frustration mount until he's ready to punch someone. 

Michael chuckles again. “Nu-uh, soldier. You’re mine, only mine, and I'll give it to you when I'm good and ready.” He lowers himself down enough to kiss and suckle lightly at Dean’s throat. Dean bends his neck to give him better access and strokes his hands up and down Mike’s sides.

“You’re mine too, right?” Dean asks. He hates himself for asking the moment the question leaves his mouth. He used to believe it. The problem is that no matter how much he denies it to himself, he _does_ love Michael. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be here almost two years down the road. He wouldn’t put up with the periods of prolonged separation or the lies. But most of the time, Mike makes it worth it.

“Of course,” Michael deadpans, lips smiling against his skin, tongue finding a particularly sensitive spot, making Dean gasp. 

It comes down to the lies. It’s making Dean question everything. If Mike lies about one thing with such ease, what's to say he isn’t lying about the other? It has Dean turned into a bundle of pure insecurity. He questions his own worth daily. (Like he hadn’t done that before too. Hah!) He’s afraid of losing Mike. He’s even more afraid to discover he's never had him to begin with. That he’s just being used. A G.I. Joe sextoy that Mike strings along for his own amusement, when he himself fell so hard for Michael that he was wrapped around his finger within the first week of knowing him.

“But what's the fucking use of having ya, when you don’t gimme what I want? You fucking useless asshole.”

Michael fucking laughs. He gives Dean a brilliant smile and lowers himself down enough to _fucking finally_ give Dean some friction. “I'm worth it, soldier,” he says and kisses Dean who responds eagerly (desperately) while grabbing onto his ass to lock him in place. 

It’s not Michael’s worth that's in question here though. It’s his. And that makes something unpleasant twist in his stomach. It makes him angry. So while he didn’t use to have any malice in the names he calls Mike, lately it's been sneaking into it. A drop of poison born out of desperation and hurt. He’s used up, broken, wrecked, unwanted. Good for nothing but being a plaything. Michael used to make him think there was something of worth left in him. 

“Tell me you love me,” the request bypasses Dean’s filter without him meaning to. 

“You know that already,” Michael answers, kissing him along the jawline. Dean arches into it, squirms underneath Mike’s perfect body.

“Don’t care. Say it or I'll shove you off.” He’s so ashamed to be asking for it. To need to hear it so badly when he himself cruelly denies Michael the same privilege. He worries that he’s just begging for another lie. 

Mike stops kissing him and supports himself on his elbows so they're face to face. He strokes Dean over the hair. His other hand traces the cheekbone down to the jawline. His hazel green eyes locks with Dean’s and gone is the teasing edge. There’s only soft warmth, sincerity, and a hint of vulnerability to be found in his gaze. “Dean. I love you. I love you more than I can begin to describe. You've turned my whole life upside down and sometimes it feels like I can't breathe while we're apart. You’re so _so_ beautiful and I know I'm lucky to have you. I love being with you, hearing you talk. I love to touch and taste you. I love watching you. You’re so, so primal and _real_. I love how you switch between playful kitten to grumpy old lion in a span of two seconds. I love your sass and how you do your thing without a care about what people will say. I envy you that and wish I could be more like you. Don’t you ever doubt my love for you because there’s no one in the world that can compete.” There isn't a trace of insincerity in his voice or features. Dean’s heart has sped up, stomach doing flip flops. 

“Gee. No need to over do it,” He says dryly but he knows that his face and eyes reveals how vulnerable and moved he really is. He can feel it. Mike just smiles softly and traces the bow of his lips with a finger. “Fair enough though. You may take your time and be a teasing little shit. This time,” Dean adds with a smirk, causing Mike to laugh. 

“Why thank you for letting me do what I want to what’s mine,” Michael says with an amused grin and kisses him, then starts trailing kisses downward. 

The statement leaves an ugly feeling mixed up with the warmth from the declaration of love. He doesn’t want to be taken for granted when he can't take Mike for granted. He feels a bit vindictive about it. Maybe that's why when he closes his eyes to just enjoy Mike’s ministrations the image of Nick forms in his head. Instead of pushing it away he goes with it. Pretends that it's Nick doing to him what Mike does. The fact that Mike takes for granted that Dean belongs to him all while he himself lies all the time adds an exciting edge to the pretense. It’s something Mike can't control, can't lay claim to, despite it happening under his nose. A silent rebellion against the lies that are so devastating to Dean’s fragile confidence. It won’t hurt Mike since he'll never know, but knowing (believing) it _would_ hurt him if he knew satisfies Dean’s vindictive mean-streak and turns him on. Dean keeps his eyes closed the whole time, until the both of them lie panting in post coital bliss.

It’s the lies that does it.

* * *


	14. Dean Looks

* * *

# Dean Looks

Allowing himself to fantasise about Nick while he was fucking Michael was a bad idea. Since that night he saw Nick have sex he’s had trouble stop looking at him, wondering what it would be like. Fantasising about it while jerking off is one thing, but as it turns out, doing it while actually having sex is different. It’s one step too close to reality. It piques curiosity. 

He can't believe he once found Nick average in the look department. Nothing special to behold. He’s super hot. Things Dean had thought of as flaws in his looks now are favourite things. Like Nick’s deep set eyes and heavy eyelids. His brows cast them in shadow when he tilts his head down a bit. It makes him look villainous (sexy as fuck). His brows are pale and as such not as expressive as dark brows. To Dean the deep set of his eyes makes him look like a predator, a force to be reckoned with. The light colouring just enhances his blue eyes, shifting between cold ice and dark marine. But he's not cold at all. 

So Dean looks.

They’re having lunch at some Italian restaurant Nick’s found (he likes Italian food). They've finished eating and are enjoying a cup of coffee while Nick reads the newspaper and Dean’s people watching when Dean casts a glance at Nick's face and get stuck. He's got a pale mole high on a cheekbone. Sam has a mole too so Dean is generally not a fan. He loves Nick’s mole though. He wonders what it would feel like to reach out and cup Nick’s currently stubbled cheek and run his thumb over the mole. He wants to fucking lick it. He wonders what Nick would do if he did. Would he allow Dean to taste it? Work his way down by grazing the jawline with his teeth, suck in that soft looking lower lip into his mouth and― 

“What?”

Dean jerks when Nick speaks, eyes flicking to Nick’s eyes only to find him watching Dean with a troubled expression. Dean’s cheeks heat up and he shifts to hide his semi. “Nothing,” he answers and turns his head towards the window. 

And Dean looks. 

Hauling crates at the docks Dean gets stuck staring at Nick’s hands. Big and rough from hard work, full of small scars from old scrapes and cuts. His knuckles weren't quite as busted as Dean’s, but by the look of things he'd done a fair share of pugilistic fighting in his life. Right now there is dirt under the crescents of his nails. Every day after work he takes his pocket knife and scrapes them clean. His fingerprints will keep dark residue of his labour despite multiple hand washes, just like Dean’s. And just like Dean’s his nails are slightly yellow from heavy smoking. 

Michael’s hands are entirely different. Strong, masculine and long fingered like Nick’s, that they have in common. But they're soft and _clean_ and beautiful in a way that he could have modeled watches or rings. Barely any scars and those he has are from his youth. His hands are smooth and feels like being caressed with warm clouds. Once upon a time, before Dean joined the army, he'd been a neat freak and borderline germophobic. That’s changed, but sucking one of Mike’s fingers into his mouth he’s reminded of that. He loves Mike’s clean cut perfection and enjoys it like a luxury for people way above his station. As long as he doesn't slip and compare himself to Mike. It happens sometimes and it makes him feel inadequate. 

Nick’s currently coiling a thick rope they had to move out of the way earlier. Dean’s reminded about imagining him when he was with Mike. He looks at how the rope slides through Nick’s calloused hands and deft fingers and wonders how they'd feel wrapped around his dick. Rough against the sensitive velvet of his skin, a finger catching the precome and smearing it out to help the glide. He gets lost in it, mouth falling open and tongue wetting his lips unconsciously. Nick’s hand slows and just strokes up and down over a short part of the rope and Dean bites his lip not to fucking whimper. Suddenly Nick drops the rope. “I need a break. Could you take over?” he says with a slightly strained voice and turns his back, proceeding to quickly walk away. Dean jerks back to reality, once again sporting a semi and with a shameful blush on his cheeks. 

And yet, Dean looks. 

Nick’s one of those guys women all over the world write angry rants about. He sprawls, claims space when he sits―an image of self entitlement. Like right now for an instance. He’s sitting in the middle of a bench, arms slung over the backrest and legs splayed open, head tilted towards the sky to catch some sun after a hard day's work toting furniture for a moving company. Dean’s taken off his shirt and is lying on his stomach on the grass in front of Nick, feeling the pleasant burn on his back. 

Nick’s wearing cargo pants and Dean’s gaze wanders up to his crotch. (How can he avoid it when it's right in his face, proudly on display?) He wonders what's hidden underneath the fabric. He saw enough when Nick pulled out of the woman and removed the condom to know that he’s decently sized, but not enough to really know what Nick’s dick looks like. 

He wonders what he tastes like and how he likes to get blown. What would he do if Dean slid between his legs right now and pulled his zipper down, took his cock out and swallowed it down? If he allowed it, how would he be like? Would he just sit still like that, but sporting a superior little smirk, looking down at Dean while Dean had to work every trick in his book for 30 to 40 minutes, his jaw aching and cramping, until he finally got him to come?

Would he be like Mike, putting a hand on his head and looking down on him like he’s the most beautiful and miraculous thing in creation and that he can’t really believe Dean would wrap his lips around his cock. (Mike still does that after all this time.) Hand petting and guiding but never forcing Dean’s head. Would he come on Dean’s face with a suffering expression and then stroke a finger through the come and feed it into Dean's open and eagerly awaiting mouth? 

Or would he twist his fingers painfully into Dean’s long hair and fuck his mouth like he had the right to do whatever fuck he wants to it? (Yeah!) Or better yet, make Dean gag on his cock, fucking _choke on it_ (Godyesplease! Let him be like that!) until tears streamed down Dean’s face and he came down Dean’s throat, just to pull him up by the hair to taste his own come in Dean’s mouth? 

Nick clears his throat, making Dean’s gaze snap up to his face only to find him staring at Dean. Oh and Dean’s so fucking busted now. Luckily he’s lying on his stomach because he’s painfully hard but it does nothing to hide the fact that he’s been staring at the bulge between Nick’s legs for god knows how long, his lips have parted and his breathing has become strained and warbly. Dean’s flushes shamefully about perving on his best friend. 

Nick definitely knows what kind of thoughts Dean’s been having. It’s written in the way his eyes are widened and his brows are drawn down in a _whatta-fuck-are-you-doing-Dean?_ expression usually reserved for when Dean does exceedingly stupid things. (It happens quite often.) But there's no clear indication in his face if he's put off or turned on by it. He’s just biting the inside of his lips and staring at Dean. 

Dean should look away, but he doesn’t. He realises with a wave of guilt that he wants to taste Nick so badly that if Nick should give _any_ indication that he'd allow it Dean would take the opportunity. He'd cheat. Michael wouldn’t even have to know unless _Nick_ told him. And while guilt and shame rolls like a ball of ice in his gut he holds Nick’s gaze.

Nick doesn’t look away either. His nostrils flare and his chest move as it becomes clear to him that Dean isn’t bending. That doesn't tell Dean jack shit about what he’s thinking. So Dean wets his lips exaggeratingly slowly, making sure Nick doesn’t miss it, with his lips parted he flicks his gaze to Nick’s crotch, tongue darting out to quickly wet his lips again, and looks back at Nick’s eyes. It’s a question, a declaration of intent. 

Nick swallows dryly. Still not changing his expression but his chest is visibly heaving now. The moment draws taut, Dean’s heart beating wildly. 

Then suddenly Nick stands up averting his gaze and turning his back to Dean. “We should get going,” he says unsteadily. 

“Yeah. Um. Just. I need a moment.” Dean’s voice comes out rough and he squeezes his eyes shut in shame and regret.

“Take your time. I'm going to check something on my bike,” Nick answers. Dean hears the gravel crunch under Nick’s feet as he walks away on the path. He lets his head fall onto the grass and digs his fingers into his hair. 

_Jeezuz Christ! What the hell am I_ doing _? I'm not a cheater! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_

Just because _he_ has these thoughts about Nick doesn’t mean Nick thinks that way about him. Mortification at the rejection along with guilt and shame makes him guard his mind and push any desirous thoughts away as soon as they surface. He’s doing a pretty good job at it. When he’s sober.

 

When he’s drunk, Dean looks. 

They’re at a roadhouse bar with a dance floor. They come here sometimes because Nick likes to dance. Dean does too, but he likes to dance _with_ someone and he has a boyfriend so he doesn’t. Instead he stays at the bar, chatting with men and women alike. Now and then he casts his eyes towards the dance floor, checking Nick out. He dances like nobody's watching, rolling his hips shamelessly to the music, switching partners and dancing alone, his whole fucking soul's in it and it’s fucking _hot_.

Ever so often he'll look towards the bar and their eyes will meet. He comes off the dance floor regularly to sink a beer, ruddy cheeked and glistening with sweat, then he’s off again. 

As the night wears on and Dean gets drunker his thoughts starts getting X-rated. He starts thinking about having those hips rolling against him, about licking the sweat from Nick’s throat. He imagines Nick above him, dripping sweat that turns his blonde hair darkly ashen and plasters it to his forehead, cheeks flushed from exertion. He thinks he hides these thoughts well. You know, because discretion is something you get extra good at when you're drunk. Nick certainly doesn't show any sign of noticing. 

Dean has to pee. He makes his way to the toilet just to find the mother of all queues. Waiting would take too long so instead Dean ventures outside. He lights a cigarette, blows a smoke ring and stumbles around the corner to relieve himself with a bit of privacy. It’s dark on this side of the building, smokers go outside to smoke on the other side where there’s an ashtray and a lamp. This place doesn’t have windows and the lamplight by the parking lot doesn’t reach this wall. Muted music from inside and the chirping of crickets are the only sounds. 

Dean pinches the cigarette between his lips and leans a hand against the wall to keep himself steady while he pees, looking down at what he's doing in the meagre light from the cherry of his cigarette. 

He shakes himself off and uses both hands to tuck in and adjust his dick. Before he can zip up he's suddenly slammed hard against the wall, barely managing to get an arm up to keep from being hurt. Someone's forearm is pressed against his neck to keep him in place but his own arm on the wall gives him enough space to twist his head. “ _The hell, Nick?!_ ”

Even in the poor orange light of the cigarette Nick’s anger is written clear on his face. “You’ve got to stop doing that, Dean. I’m serious, I mean it.”

Dean’s heart is hammering in his chest. He’s not afraid, not when he knows it’s Nick, (and fuck does he know how to move silently!) but he did get quite a scare and is utterly bewildered and confused. “Do what?”

“Do you think I'm fucking blind?” Nick relieves the pressure on Dean’s neck. He leans on his forearm rather than pressing, comes closer, chest almost brushing against Dean’s back. “You think I'm stupid? That I don't see what you're doing? Fuck, Dean. I'm not made of stone!”

Dean’s still not following, but frustration is bleeding through Nick’s anger. “Gotta spell it out, Nick. Kinda drunk right now. What did I do?”

Nick hisses in vexation. “Stop looking at me like you want to fuck me!”

_Oh shit._

“I'm not.” And did he have to bring it up? The mere mention of sex has Dean shifting gears. Nick’s so close. Brushing along the line of his body while he's leaned forward against the wall, and isn't that just fucking perfect? 

Nick snorts skeptically. He takes the unlit cigarette Dean habitually has behind his ear, puts it in his mouth, then grabs a hold of Dean’s hair, bending his head backwards and keeping it locked in place while he leans in to put his cigarette against Dean’s. He sucks to light it, unbeknowingly lighting a whole other kind of fire in Dean. He retains his grip on Dean’s hair and takes the cigarette in his other hand. “Don’t lie to me, dickwad. I'm not born yesterday,” he says, eyes full of disdain. 

“Nick. I'm not looking at you like _I_ want to fuck _you_.” To get his point across Dean very deliberately and slowly arches his back, pushing out until his ass rubs against Nick’s crotch.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Nick bites out and stares at Dean with frustration. The anger is back in his eyes but Dean can feel him reacting differently against his ass. Nick’s getting hard. Nick takes another hit on his cigarette, bends Dean’s head to the side and slowly blows smoke along the curve of his neck. Goosebumps erupt, spreading all the way down Dean’s arm. “Fuck,” he curses again and lets go of Dean’s hair only to run his hand down his back and grip his hip loosely. 

Dean makes a soft noise when Nick makes a slow roll of his hip and leans his forehead between his shoulder blades. For a moment Nick’s just standing still, breathing strained, the grip on Dean’s hip growing increasingly hard until his fingers dig in painfully hard. "You’re not playing fair,” Nick grits out. He pushes himself off of Dean and slaps Dean hard on the back of his head, making him jerk in surprise. “Stop this, Dean. I'm dead serious. You can’t keep doing it. You’re driving me fucking insane. Stop!” Then he walks away, leaving Dean with his heart in his throat and yet again an embarrassing erection along with a torrent of mixed emotions. Hurt, arousal, shame, guilt, and stupid butterflies that has no business being there after this final rejection. 

After that Dean stops looking. He stops thinking of him when he jerks off. He can't help that he dreams of him sometimes, but he does everything to stave off any sexual desire. He reminds himself he’s not a cheater no matter if Mike lies or not. Michael loves him. He takes care of Dean in his own way. He doesn’t deserve having Dean cheat on him. That’s what he tells himself.

* * *


	15. Acquaintance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this chapter earlier out of place. I'm sorry about that. I'm posting this and the next together. They belong as a pair. Comment just so I know if you're still with me. ;)

* * *

# Acquaintance

Michael suddenly lets go of his hand and steps away from him. Dean barely has time to react before someone calls out “Michael Williams?” and then “Michael! Long time no see. How’s your father?” A tall and corpulent gentleman with neatly combed hair and a tailored monkey suit approach them with his hand outstretched for a handshake. 

Michael takes his hand with a big charming smile and the man clasps his other hand over Mike's. “Mr. Sullivan! Looking good. Father’s been complaining about your superior golf skills.”

Sullivan chuckles indulgently. “Your father may be a brilliant man but he can't hit a golf ball to save life.”

“Tell me about it,” Mike laments. “Just don’t tell _him_.” The two of them laughs and Dean thinks he’s learned more about Mike’s father just now than he has in the last six months.

Dean stands awkwardly to the side looking back and forth between the two of them. He clears his throat which makes Sullivan take note of him for the first time. The older man gives him a once over with thinly veiled distaste. Dean becomes acutely aware about the differences between Michael and himself. They’re wearing the same type of clothes yet couldn't have been more different. Dean has combat boots on, faded jeans so worn they’re one step away from having holes, and a gray tee washed so many times it's reached perfection in the softness department. Michael on the other hand is wearing a Ralph Lauren tennis shirt, Armani jeans, high fashion ankle boots, all topped off with an expensive watch and a white gold bracelet. Dean doesn’t want to wear clothes like that or Mike would gladly have bought them for him. But with how Sullivan is looking at him he feels fucking self-conscious. 

“Oh. This is Rudolph Sullivan, a business partner of my dad's,” Michael says and Dean extends a hand. “Mr. Sullivan, this is Dean. An acquaintance of mine.”

“Charmed,” Sullivan says in a tone that declares the opposite and shakes his hand before promptly ignoring Dean and turning his attention back to Mike.

How the hell Dean manages to keep a polite smile on his face is a mystery. The word ‘acquaintance’ echoes louder and louder in his brain until it drowns out all the rest. Michael has no problem with PDA or in other ways flaunt their relationship in public despite claiming never to have been attracted to a guy before. There had been no sign of a sexuality freak out. If Mike is to be believed Cas was gay, Nick bi and Gabe is ambiguous at best. He’d never seriously considered that Mike could be in the closet. But this? This Mike just did? Something rattles loose inside of Dean, a bolt holding hurt feelings in place so they stay under lid.

When Sullivan have said his goodbye and gone on his way Mike moves to take Dean’s hand. Dean snatches his hand away and glares at him. “Mike, what the hell?!”

Michael looks taken aback and confused. 

" _Acquaintance_?” Dean all but spits at him. 

Michael runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Dean. Sullivan is extremely bigoted and judgemental. He’s a business partner of my dad's. He might take offense and end the partnership. If he did we'd lose millions.”

“You don’t think I can understand the need to hide at times? But we've been together for almost two years and ‘acquaintance’ is what you choose to dub me? Fucks sake! Fucking _acquaintance_?”

“Dean―”

“Don’t ‘Dean’ me! You could have at least gone with ‘friend’! How insignificant am I to you really? I want to belong with someone, not _to_ someone! If I’m nothing but a dirty fucktoy to you, you can at least be honest about it! ”

“ _Dean_ ―” Michael tries to cut in but Dean won't let him. 

“No! _Fuck you, Mike_!” And with that he storms off, ignoring Michael’s calls behind him.

* * *


	16. Of All The Places...

* * *

# Of All The Places...

He’s never been at this bar before. It's a crappy hole in the wall that once maybe tried to seem like an Irish pub but long since gave up on being niched. Now it just fought to appear clean. It’s one of those places miserable people come to dwell in their misery so Dean fits right in. The bartender, Eli, looks so much like Benny they could have been brothers if it wasn't for the New York accent he was sporting instead of Benny’s warm cajun. 

Eli had asked if Dean wanted to talk about it but left him alone after a nasty “Don’t think so, pal. Keep em coming and mind your own fucking business!”

So here Dean is, throwing back whiskey like water, head bent down with one hand buried in his (too long) hair and he's fucking _crying._ How pathetic is that? And for what? Because Mike used the wrong word? And still Dean―being a giant baby―could barely stop crying. And when he did there was this fucking _anger_ welling up inside. The two other patrons occupying a table each don’t even bat an eyelash at seeing a grown man alternatingly crying, cursing under his breath, and staring vacantly into his drink.

“Dean?”

_Shit._ Of all the places he just had to pick mine. 

Nick’s voice, usually so welcome, is now one of the last things Dean wants to hear. Dean doesn’t look up. He'd chosen this place because he'd never been here and thus making it hard for Michael to find him or accidentally running into Nick for that matter. 

“What are you doing here?” Nick puts a hand between his shoulder blades when he comes up to him. Then he sees Dean’s state. “What happened? Did you break up?” He sounds worried. 

Dean drains his glass, refusing to look at Nick. It's fucking embarrassing to be seen like this. Eli refills the glass without being asked, bless the man, and puts drink in front of Nick unprompted―something that reveals Nick may be something of a regular here. “No.” 

That’s when Dean’s phone lying face down in front of him on the bardisk decides to ring again. Dean ignores it but Nick doesn’t―he turns it to see the caller ID. It's Michael. Again. Michael sure doesn’t know how to take a hint. Twenty one texts and sixteen missed (ignored) calls this far including this one. Maybe it's a family trait considering how Nick had kept texting when Dean ignored him. They’re both assholes who expects the world to fall at their feet, unable to take a ‘no’. Dean regrets that thought as soon as he thinks it. They’re both hard-working and mulishly stubborn. None of them expects things to be given for free. Dean’s just hurt and angry and wants to direct blame away from himself. It’s not working very well.

Nick puts the phone back down and all the sudden he's up in Dean’s face, one hand clutching his bicep the other gripping his jaw, forcing Dean to twist and look at him. There’s a dark storm brewing in Nick's eyes. Anger―but Dean's not sure for who it's meant at first. “What did he do?” he demands, voice as hard as his eyes. 

“Nothing,” Dean answers and slaps Nick’s hand away from his face, then rubs at his cheeks to remove the embarrassing tear tracks. Yeah right. Like that’s gonna make a difference. What with his nose being red and his eyes red rimmed. It’s not like he’s fooling anyone. 

“He did something or you’d be with him right now and not…” Nick doesn’t finish the sentence. 

“It’s nothing. I’m just overreacting like a bratty spoilt princess, okay?”

“Bullshit, Dean. He did something wrong and he knows it.” Nick holds Dean’s phone up under his nose so he can see the ‘ _16 missed calls_ ’ on the display. “He knows it or he wouldn’t be hounding you. What did he do?”

“Christ! I’m fucking overreacting. Will you just leave it alone?”

Nick’s all up in his face, gaze all intense and demanding, ignoring Dean’s peevish protests. “What. Did. He. Do?”

“Nothing that deserves me acting like this,” Dean says, bending down his head and leaning it against Nick’s chest because he can’t stand meeting his eyes. “Really. Besides, I’m the real jerk. I whine about him being away all the time, I make a mess of the apartment. I drink and smoke like a chimney. I dress like a fucking hobo and he still goes out in public with me. Instead of calling him sweetheart or whatever I call him asshole, fuckwad, dick, and shit like that and he just puts up with me and spoils me rotten.”

“At least you got the pet names right,” Nick says dryly and it startles a little laugh out of Dean but the laugh breaks into a wounded animal whine at the end because for whatever reason the words coming out of his mouth doesn’t correspond to the hurt inside. 

“Fuck you, Nick. I don't want you seeing me like this,” Dean says going for abrasive and quarrelsome but failing to get Nick to back away. 

“That makes two of us,” Nick mutters and Dean, thinking himself mocked, pushes him away only to find troubled concern in his face. “Do you love Michael?” Nick asks and slides up on the barstool beside Dean, finally giving him some space. Unfortunately he keeps watching Dean intently so even if he’s not physically up in his space anymore the difference isn’t all that big.

Dean turns his head away, bending his head to stare down in his glass. He shrugs noncommittally and turns the corners of his lips down in a sturgeon face, trying to convey that he doesn’t know or doesn’t care or simply _doesn’t_. His traitorous lips decide to quiver though and spoil the effect. His eyes start to sting again. 

“I love him too you know,” Nick says quietly and takes a swig of his drink. He pulls up his pack of cigarettes despite the general indoor smoking prohibition. Eli just puts an ashtray between them, the law be damned.

“I thought you hated him,” Dean says and looks up at Nick.

Nick nods, lights a cigarette and offers it to Dean who takes it. Nick light another one for himself. “I do. One feeling doesn’t necessarily exclude the other.”

Dean can relate to that. His feelings towards Sam are complex. He takes a drag on the cigarette, exhaling slowly, hoping Nick will go on unprompted. He’s never asked about what happened between Nick and Mike but he’s curious.

Nick throws a look at Dean then looks down in his glass. “We’re born only ten months apart me and Mikey. But we might as well have been twins for how close we were. We loved each other...what was the phrase you used? Almost incestously much? Not _quite_ at that level, but we were really fucking close.” Nick pauses to blow a wobbly smoke ring. He’s not quite as good at it as Dean and has to make three tries to get it right. “All of us brothers were close. Mikey, me, Gabe, and Cas. I think that came partly from being so close in age and partly because we were raised to be loyal to each other. Our parents took great care to hammer into us the importance of honouring the family name and I think the closeness between us is a byproduct of that too.” Nick takes another pause to sip his drink and Dean remains quiet, waiting. “We had another brother, Raphael, that was born after Castiel. He died from pneumonia when he was one. After that mom didn’t have any more children for a few years. That’s why our sisters Anna, Hannah, and Hester are so much younger than us. _They_ are close, but not with us. We’ve got the boys against girls thing going on in our family,” Nick says with a rueful smile directed at his glass.

Eli comes by to put a stack of napkins in front of Dean. Dean gives him a grateful look and blows his nose. Then Nick starts talking again.

“So Mikey was born January the 1st, 1979, I was born the 1st of November the same year… then Gabe came September 4th 1980, and Cas June 27th 1981.”

“Jeezuz Christ! Your parents didn’t waste any time, did they? Fuck me. I didn’t even know you could get pregnant that fast after giving birth. That’s _insane_.” Michael had said his brothers and him were born a year apart but not specified the dates and Dean hadn’t spent any time thinking about it. Not even when Nick entered into the picture had he thought about it. He’d just assumed Nick was a year older. “Don’t chicks get like, all ripped to shreds popping a baby? Sex that soon after must hurt like a bitch.”

Nick makes a face and bursts into bemused laughter. “Dean, for god’s sake! I don’t want to consider the specifics about my parents sex life. Ew. Let’s just settle for that they had one and it was active.”

“Alright, alright. Heh. That makes the four of you Irish quadruplets,” Dean muses. The expression ‘Irish twins’ about siblings born less than a year apart fit right in on Nick and Mike. But also on Nick and Gabe, and Gabe and Cas. 

Nick grins and shakes his head. “Not quite, but close enough. So that brings us back to me and Mikey. We did everything together. You know how he is, when he makes you the center of his world you bask in it. He can overtake anyone with his devotion and charm. It makes it hard to see his manipulative side.”

“Yeah…” Dean concedes. He did have a way to sweep you of your feet and make you forget all else.

“Mikey is the perfect son. And for a long time I thought he was the perfect brother too. He was. In a way. Until father threatened to disown anyone of my siblings that kept in contact with me. Gabe and Cas… they defy father in secret, talking to me, meeting up. But Mikey doesn’t and that breaks my fucking heart, Dean.” Nick takes a deep breath of smoke and looks up at the lamp overhead. “Not until Mikey broke contact did I stop to examine things that has happened and that he’s done, seeing a side of him I used to be blind to or forgive.”

“Like what?”

“Michael was the instigator of most of the crap we did. He was the one who stole a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the maid. He got us to try smoking but never did so himself. He was the one to steal liquor from the cabinet. Granted, we all drank from it. But only me and Gabe got drunk. Mikey used to only sip whatever stuff he got his hands on, encouraging us to drink more. Cas is not a big fan of the taste and even today you will find him drunk once, twice a year tops. He came up with ideas that me and Gabe carried out. Dyeing the neighbour’s toy poodle pink, stealing everyone’s clothes when they were in the pool, putting frogs in the pockets of esteemed guests. You name it. And I always ended up taking the fall for it. Back then I didn’t mind. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Mikey. And we had so much fun. It seemed worth it.”

Dean thinks about his own foray in trying to sober up and what Mike had done then. A thought hits him. “What about Lilith?”

“Ah. Yes. Girls.” Nick snorts. “I always forgave him for messing with the girls I liked, but what he did with Lilith actually hurt. Mikey had a tendency that if I told him that I liked someone he’d seduce them. April, Amara, Eve… it was frustrating, but okay. I know I can’t compete with Michael. He’s as charming as he’s good looking. I was just the ‘trouble maker’. To be honest I wouldn’t have minded sharing a girlfriend with him. Anything mine was his too. I didn’t get jealous, just disappointed. Few girls want me when they can have Mikey. But Lilith was different for a lot of reasons. For one, she wasn’t just a girl I liked, she was my girlfriend. This was when I was 19. We’d been dating for two months and I was head over heels. So I told Mikey that I thought she was the one. The girl I was going to marry and spend the rest of my life with. Three days later I walk in on them having sex. Mikey’s explanation was that he wanted to show me she wasn’t good enough for me.” There’s anger in Nick’s voice now. “I was heartbroken and really fucking angry. Both at Mikey and Lilith. I dumped her and almost exclusively dated guys after that since Mikey was straight, as far as we knew back then. Before you came along I mean.”

“You really think I was his first guy?”

“Not a doubt in my mind.” Nick drains his glass and gestures to Eli for a refill. He draws a deep breath and lets it out with a tired sigh. “That’s why I believe he means it when he says he loves you. That, plus how long he’s been holding on, and―” he reaches out and flips Dean’s phone over, tapping the screen over the 16 missed calls.

“And here I am acting like a giant pissbaby,” Dean says bitterly. “I should be grateful.”

Nick screws his face up in sceptical puzzlement. “You think so? Is that really how love works? I don’t think love is something you should need to thank people for being on the receiving end of.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a feeling. Not something you can control. If a person loves you they do so whether they want to or not. So you shouldn’t be grateful for love in itself, but how people treat you. ‘Sides, this is good for Mikey. He needs to meet some resistance once in awhile. The only person he doesn’t have wrapped around his finger is father.”

“And you.”

Nick hums and squashes his cigarette in the ashtray. “I don’t know, Dean. Most days that’s true. Yet I’m still… still loyal to him in a way. I don’t really know how _not_ to put him before other people except perhaps Gabe and Cas. I’m not sure I want to. He is my brother after all. Though most days I want to bash his face in with a brick,” he says with a sour twist of his lips.

Dean makes a little weird sound that’s half between a laugh and a whimper. He rubs a hand over his face and then drains his drink. Thoughts circling back to why he was here in the first place. “We ran into someone he knew, a business partner of your dad’s. He introduced me as an acquaintance and I was kinda blindsided by that. I fucking lost it as soon as we were alone again. We’ve been together for nearly two years and he couldn’t even go with ‘friend’,” Dean says bitterly. Nick gives him a sympathetic look. “I didn’t even know Mike’s in the closet. He’s the king of PDA for god’s sake.”

“Who did you run into?”

“Some snooty older guy named Sullivan.”

“Ah.”

“You know him?”

“Sure I do. He’s been a partner of my father’s since forever. Biggest homophobe in this hemisphere. I’m pretty sure he’s the reason Cas decided to move to Europe when he figured out he was gay.”

“Oh. So you would have introduced me like an acquaintance too? Or friend?” Shit. he really had overreacted, hadn’t he?

Nick sniggers. “Dean. If I was your boyfriend I would have introduced you as my fucking fiancee and finished off with a tongue inspection of your tonsils just to make sure the message went through. Hell, I still would if you and me ran into him today. You giving me a black eye for my efforts would be worth it just for the look on his face.” He smirks and winks at Dean. “But then again, that’s why I’m disowned and Mikey isn’t.”

Dean chuckles. And why the hell does that have to make his cheeks heat up? He looks down in his drink. “I wouldn’t slug you for that…That douche looked at me like I wasn’t even worth the dirt on his shoes. And Mikey made me feel like that was true by how he acted.” 

On cue Dean’s phone rings again. Both of them stare at it until it goes quiet. Dean runs a frustrated hand over his face. “I’m kept. I’m his kept boytoy and that’s all I’m ever going to be isn’t it?” He turns to look at Nick. “Every time he comes home he makes me forget it because he’s so… so… yeah. But then he goes away, leaving money and whatever necessities he thinks I need, and I feel like a fucking whore of a dog waiting for my master and I fucking hate that! He drowns me in luxury and yet I feel like the cheapest disposable when he goes because he doesn’t call, he doesn’t ask what I do when he’s away, he doesn’t _care_. Two years down the line and I’m still begging for scraps down his timetable! Why am I so easy to leave? Why am I so easy to ignore? I get attached, giving it my all and it’s all ‘thank you for your service, you can go now’. Dad and Sam, the army, Mike… nobody cares enough to want me to stick around except for when they’ve got use for me. _Fuck_.” 

And yeah. Here comes the tears again.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and bares his teeth in an effort not to start bawling. Suddenly he’s enveloped in a tight embrace. Nick guides his head to rest against his chest with a hand and leans his chin against the crown of his head. He’s warm and smells of safety. “Let it out, Dean. I’ve got you.” 

Dean feels like a loser for crying like a baby, but he does nevertheless let go. In the middle of a (alright, not crowded, but still) bar in broad daylight. It’s not just about Mike of course. It’s everything―his leg, the army, his family, his conflicting emotions, all the shit he’s seen and been through, his total lack of self worth. Someone takes the cigarette out of his hand so he can hold on better. 

It feels like he’s bawling for an eternity. You'd think it be cathartic but when he’s run out of tears he feels empty and hollow, not to mention embarrassed. “Shit. I'm sorry. I'm so pathetic,” he snivels into Nick’s chest. 

“You don’t think I ever cry? I've lost my shit more often than I care to think about. In here too. Tell him, Eli,” Nick answers, one hand carding through Dean hair and the other around him. 

“In the very same spot you're in now,” the bartender confirms.

Dean straightens up and reaches for the napkins to blow his nose. Nick lets him slip out of his grasp with some reluctancy and sits back on his stool. Dean blows his nose, downs his drink (swiftly refilled by Eli) and rubs at his wet cheeks. His body wracks with errant snivels he can’t stop. He hasn’t cried like this since… Benny died. He'd cried for Ennis, but just silent sobs into his pillow. Same goes for waking up at the hospital hearing virtually that life as he knew it was over. Before that only Sam and dad had managed to make him lose it like this. “Oh yeah? What didja cry about?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh you know. The state of things. Mikey. Things I can’t have.” Nick sounds offhanded about it, a chipper facade.

“What really happened between you an’ Mike?” Dean asks, downing his drink again. He’s planning to drink himself to oblivion and forget any of this ever happened. “Was it Lillith?”

“No. I stayed mad at him for a week before I broke. He knew he’d done wrong so he hounded me very much like he’s doing to you now.” Nick taps Dean’s phone to accentuate his point. “Like I said. We were very, very close.”

“Incestously close,” Dean jokes.

Nick’s pauses for a beat. “Outsiders might have perceived it that way…” he reluctantly admits, making Dean’s head snap up to look at him with raised eyebrows. Nick shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. “I can assure you there was nothing sexual about my relationship with Mikey, but…” he shifts again, sips his drink, looks away. “...we were a lot more physical than most siblings. Slept in the same bed ever so often, even as adults. Hugged a lot. Things like that. I guess we were quite codependent on each other. So I guess people could get the wrong idea.” He looks back at Dean. “All of my brothers are physical with their affection, much like you. That doesn’t mean there was any incest going on between us.”

“Um. Yeah, okay. I meant it as a joke, not an accusation.”

“I know. But you were honest to me about your relationship with Sam so I might as well do you the same honour. My relationship with our father started going downhill in my late teens when it stood clear to me that I didn't want to join the family business. Mikey stuck by me for much longer.”

“So you wanted to become a soldier?”

Nick chuckles and shakes his head. "Not at all. I wanted to become a florist.” Dean’s eyebrows shoot upwards once again. “No joke, I love flowers,” Nick adds with a quirk to his lips. 

“Huh. I didn’t see that coming.” Dean downs another drink and lights a cigarette. Listening to Nick is a good distraction. 

“Father said I couldn't follow an order to save my life. So within a week I enlisted, giving him the finger. Got a purple heart to prove him wrong and everything,” Nick says with wry humour. “I regretted the decision fairly quickly. Being separated from Mikey was harder than I'd expected. But we clung on. I lived with him when I was on leave. My relationship with father kept getting more and more strained. It didn't change a thing for me and Mikey until suddenly a couple of years ago I came home and found myself disowned and my siblings under the threat of being disowned themselves if they kept in contact.”

“No fucking shit? Did something happen the time you were on leave before?”

Nick shrugs, shifts, and makes a sturgeon face. “No. Not anything I can pinpoint. Whatever it was took place when I was gone.”

“You sure?”

Nick hesitates, purses his lips in thought, then nods without confidence. Dean thinks there might have been something but nothing Nick’s willing to share so he’s not gonna push. “Mikey did a 180 after that. Never defied father. He could've, in secret. There was a time I'd agreed to anything to have him back. But that was before I was fighting for my life in the hospital and he didn't show up. I'll never forgive him for that.” The last sentence is said with a hateful grimace. 

"And you don’t know why?”

“No. Cas and Gabe don't know, and Mikey accuses me of all kinds of shit that makes no sense.”

“When did you get hurt?”

“About three months before we met.”

That detail tickles something in the back of Dean’s mind, but he’s too drunk to grasp what. He only feels that it's important somehow and hopes he'll remember thinking it when he sobers up.

“Has he taken down the pictures of me yet?” Nick asks. 

“Nope. He’s put up three more in fact. I've caught him staring at em sometimes when he thinks I ain’t lookin,” Dean tells him, wanting to give him something. 

“Really? Which ones?” Nick asks, trying to sound uninterested and failing. 

"You all spit shined and bushy tailed as a new recruit, one of you sitting on the cannon of a tank in Afghanistan, smoking and dangling your legs. Looking hot as fuck if I may say so.” Like, seriously fucking steaming hot. Dean’s pretty sure soldiers ain't supposed to have uniform kinks but Dean's got one. “The third one is recent, of you and Mike out partying, four girls even I can see are smoking hot draped all over you.”

“Are we dressed in grey with purple ties?”

“Yeah.” 

Nick looks down in his drink, spinning the glass slowly, lips curving slightly in a smile. He gets lost in thoughts a while, Dean studies him while smoking his cigarette. He sees when the memory turns from fond and warm to wherever he and Mike is today, Nick's face twisting into a cold hard mask and he drains his glass, slamming it onto the bar disk. “So why did you join the forces?” he asks, body language declaring that the subject of him and Mike is finished for now. 

Dean takes a last drag of his cigarette, taps the ashes off then squishes the butt in the ashtray. “Wanted to be a soldier for as long as I can remember. Dad wasn't happy about it. He wanted me to go to college and ‘make something of myself.’ He said I'd be wasting my life and be left like a useless shell if I survived. I can imagine him if he saw me now. ‘Told you so, son.’” Dean snorts bitterly. He should have listened to dad’s lectures about PTSD and the bad treatment of veterans. 

Nick's hand lands between his shoulder blades. “You’re not useless, Dean. I need you.”

Nick doesn’t know what he’s talking about. They’re both getting drunk. Nick doesn’t need him. He manages just fine without Dean on the weeks Mike’s in town. It’s the other way around. Dean would drown without him.

* * *


	17. Bring Me Back Home

* * *

# Bring Me Back Home

_“Shit he’s heavy.”_

_“Pure muscles. Grab his arm… now heave!”_

_“There. Can you sit in the back with him and keep an eye on him?”_

_“Yeah. Hey, thanks for doing this, Eli.”_

_“No problem. Dunnit for you often enough. Not much of a stretch to do it for your boyfriend.”_

_“He's not my boyfriend. I've told you that.”_

_“But it is the famous Dean right?_ The _Dean?”_

_*chuckle* “Yes. It’s him.”_

_“I must say, when I heard you gush all those superlatives about him I didn’t really believe he would be as good looking as you painted him. But he’s a knockout. If I ever would consider being with a man it'd be someone like him.”_

_*heavy sigh* “You and me both, pal. You and me both.”_

His cheek stings. Then again, harder. “Dean. You with me? Dean!” Dean pries his eyes open just as he gets another slap on the cheek. 

“ _Wttfck_! ….Nick?” Spinning. Everything is spinning. But Nick’s there, peering worriedly into his eyes, gauging his consciousness level. Dark icy blue and the white of his eyes pink from heavy drinking and stinging smoke. Fucking perfect, and close, and spinning. “s prtty. s be us. Me’n’jou s be ‘s tgthr,” Dean declares, getting nothing but a troubled frown in reply. So maybe he's slurring a little bit. Maybe the message isn't getting through. 

“We’re taking you home, Dean. I just want to make sure you don't slip away from us.”

Blurry memories of hanging with his head over a toilet, Nick sticking his fingers down his throat until he gagged and puked floats around his fuzzy head. He hurled his fucking guts out until there was nothing more to heave up and his head was minutely clearer. Nick by his side all through, stroking his back, holding his hair out of the way and telling him ‘I've got you. I've got you. Get it out. I've got you.’ Getting him to rinse his mouth afterwards, making him drink water. Mostly the night was just blessed nothingness. “Love!” Dean pushes on in his declaration and closes his eyes to make it stop spinning. The sound of the car engine is lulling and nauseating at the same time. 

"Mmmh. I'm sure Mikey is at home worrying about you. If not I'll stay until he gets there.”

He’s so missing the point. The world tilts and suddenly he’s face down on Nick’s belly and everything is good, and well, and spinning. Nick strokes his back. Yeah, all is good. “No. _Nickeeee_. ‘S! s’ppy tgthr. ‘s good. Screw ‘m.” Dean babbles/mumbles into Nick’s belly. “Nickeeee. Love,” he adds just to be sure Nick gets it before consciousness has faded again. 

“What’s he saying?” Eli’s floating voice asks from far off. 

“Hell if I know. He isn’t exactly coher…” Nick’s voice cuts out as Dean fades into oblivion.

* * *

_“He's not waking up.”_

_“Wait. Hold him like this… now lift.”_

_*groan*_

_“Good. Just a little bit further. Hold him up.”_

_*keys rattling*_

_“Dean! Oh god, I've been so― Luci? Jesus, Dean! What happened?!”_

_“I'd say he tried to take his life through alcohol poisoning thanks to you. Help me carry him to the bedroom.”_

_“Jesus. Dean, baby. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.”_

_“Calm down, Mikey. He'll be alright. I'd never let anything happen to him.”_

_“You need a ride home? Or can I take off now?”_

_“You go. Thanks for your help, Eli.”_

_“Alright, catch you later.”_

_“Where did you find him, Luci?”_

_“None of your business. If you could treat him like he deserves he wouldn’t have run out on you. He’s_ way _too good for you, Mikey.”_

_“Screw you. Shit. Should we take him to a hospital?”_

_“No. Christ! No hospitals. He’ll be alright. And if he won’t, it’s your fucking fault!”_

_“What did you tell him? Bet you’ve been filling him up with lies and manipulated him like you manipulated me. If you’ve said anything to make him leave me―”_

_“Like_ I _manipulated_ you _?!” *sputter* “Fuck you, you douchey self righteous fuckwad asshole! You’re the manipulative one. I don’t need to tell him anything. You’re fucking this up all by yourself. How ‘bout you grow a spine and get your nose out of daddy’s asshole for a change. If you want to keep him you better start treating him like he deserves. Put a fucking ring on it or you’ll lose him.”_

_“It’s none of your business what I do, Luci. Just because you―Woah! Hey, hey! What are you doing? Stop hitting him!”_

_“Stay out of it. Dean! De_ an! Are you with me? Dean!” Dean’s cheek stings again as Nick’s voice goes from floaty and faraway to near and real. Dean groans. “There you are. You’re at home. How are you feeling?”

The room is spinning. His clothes are suffocating him. He's so hot. He opens his eyes to find both Nick and Mike leaned over him with worried faces. “Can’t breathe. Clothes off,” he croaks and struggles futility to get his shirt off. 

“We’ll help you,” Nick says and moves to support him. He looks at Mike. “Take his shirt off.” When Mike hesitates Nick scowls. “Now’s not the time, Mikey,” he snaps irritably. “He was naked in front of me for hours the first time we met. Stow your jealousy!”

That’s not true. But he’s been naked in front of Nick a number of times since then. Starting with their half year anniversary. On hot days they'd gone swimming and Dean’s been basking in the sun, naked as the day he was born while Nick stubbornly covered himself up. Of course it'd be unwise to tell Michael that.

Not that Dean would. He has other priorities right now. Like how his boots are suffocating him. Luckily Nick’s I-have-no-time-for-your-bullshit attitude snaps Mike into action and the brothers cooperates seamlessly to get Dean naked while he whines “Can’t breathe. Boots. Can’t breathe. Pants. Can’t breathe. Socks.” And so on and so forth until someone tries to remove his dog tags (which, granted, are suffocating him), making him flail to fend the culprit off. Even in this state of total inebriation, he's set to defend the priciest accessory he'll ever own. He gave up his life for those dog tags and they'll come off when he’s dead or not at all. He hears Nick laugh and Mike cuss. He can’t see them anymore and it takes him a while to figure out that he’s closed his eyes.

Once he's naked he’s suddenly cold and whines about that. But the blanket they put on him is suffocating him and he trashes to get it off. By now Nick’s sniggering continuously and even Mike chuckles because they're both sadistic assholes who apparently enjoy seeing him suffer. He pries his eyes open and blinks at them, sitting on the bed on either side of him. 

“You need to drink and eat something, then you can go back to sleep. Mikey will keep an eye on you,” Nick says.

Dean grunts and closes his eyes, filtering away everything but the word ‘sleep’ as unimportant. He’s woken up again and made to drink water, take a pill and eat something he barely tastes, as he’s only half conscious while he chews and swallows.

The next time he wakes up he’s got the hangover from hell and Nick is gone.

* * *


	18. A Blue Rose

* * *

# A Blue Rose

Mike’s out of town. It’s one of those rare weeks when Nick’s out of town too. He’s been very cryptic about where he is and when he’ll be back. He texts daily even if he isn’t around, but Dean feels restless and left out so he throws one of his passive aggressive bitch fits by giving Nick the silent treatment. He knows it’s irrational and that he can’t expect Nick’s life to be centered around him. Hell, his fucking boyfriend’s life isn’t even centered around him. It’s unfair, because Dean’s life _is_. He’s got nothing else and can’t make himself get something else to think about or do.

The days crawl by painfully slow. The first two days he works, then drops by the Eli’s bar to grab a few beers and just talk about random crap, feeling increasingly restless. He has trouble falling asleep. By day three he can’t even muster energy to get out of bed. He doesn’t _have to_ work, so he doesn’t. It’s pointless unless Nick’s there. There’s a hollow feeling inside of him that just keeps growing and he’s real fucking sad for no apparent reason. It feels suspiciously much like it did the first months dating Mike, before he got used to Michael just disappearing for weeks on end. He’s missing Nick, _longing_ for him. By day six it’s a physical ache. Dean’s very good at ignoring the _reason_ he feels that way, but he can’t ignore the feeling itself.

He tells himself it’s because he’s alone and when he’s alone the past haunts him. His, mom, Sammy, dad, Benny, Ennis, all the shit he’s seen and done, the airstrike that got him―it comes crawling out of the corners of his mind to eat at him. This is partially true. It does. So does every insecurity Dean has about not being good enough. Honestly though, it isn’t his old demons that hounds him, it’s Nick and Mike. Two brothers, and he’s emotionally dependant on both of them. 

Before the airstrike rendered him useless his confidence had been on an all time high. He was well liked, respected for his technical competence in the field and his ability to keep a clear mind under stress, he was _needed_. He still thought he had Sam and dad back then, even if they never answered his letters. He was never alone. He had no plans to ever retire from the army. But then in the blink of an eye it was all gone. He woke up in a hospital to blinding pain and the message of “Sorry pal. You’re broken and useless now so we don’t want you anymore.” (The wording was different but the message got through.) The doctors hadn’t been sure if he would be able to use his leg again but Dean is a stubborn s.o.b and so was one of the surgeons working there. Thus he could walk just fine today if you ignored the chronic pain he was in. (Running was another matter. Even a short sprint fucking killed the leg.) The real crippling was done to his head and confidence. Broken. Used up. Good for nothing. Barely held together by the duct tape Nick and Mike provided. That’s why he doesn’t answer any of Nick’s texts. A declaration of “If you don’t need me - I don’t want anything to do with you.” A silent scream for Nick to come back.

He’s sober from day six because he doesn’t leave bed for anything other than visiting the toilet, and he runs out of booze in the penthouse. He barely sleeps, he doesn’t eat. He just lies in bed doing absolutely nothing. The fitful sleep he does get is full of blood and gore and guilt. Then day eight rolls around...

Mike doesn’t call but at least he hasn’t forgotten what day it is. Dean wakes up to someone ringing the doorbell. Outside is a delivery guy with the biggest fucking bouquet of red roses Dean’s ever seen, along with an artfully wrapped gift box with a card. “ _Happy 32nd Birthday! Love you more than I know how to put in words. Hope you have a great day! - Michael_ ” the card reads. Dean opens the gift to find a wristwatch. It’s one of those expensive luxury ones Dean would normally feel uncomfortable wearing except this one is all kinds of awesome. Done in black and brushed steel, with a shitton of functions, it’s masculine and draws the thoughts to fighter jets, race cars and fast motorbikes. Dean loves it. He calls Mike to say thank you but the call goes directly to voicemail.

He puts the roses (fifty he counts, thankfully delivered in a vase) on one of the side tables by the round couch, goes back to bed wearing the watch, and falls asleep.

`**Nick 14:44:** I’m back. Can you meet me at Johnny’s Steak House 17:00?`

The text wakes him up. The relief of Nick being back in town is so great he never even considers not going. Besides, it’s his birthday. He doesn’t want to spend it alone even if Nick doesn’t know what day it is.

Dean takes a bath and scrubs himself clean. He dresses in a pair of almost unused dark blue jeans and borrows a black dress shirt from Michael’s wardrobe. It’s a bit too tight but looks good all the same. He spends too long time combing his hair, trying out different hairstyles. It’s long―way past the boy band look by now. He should cut it but he’s afraid of having to look himself in the mirror and see anything reminding him of the old crew cut he used to sport. It’d serve as a constant reminder of what he’s lost and the things he's done. He settles for a back slick to get the hair out of his face. He thinks he looks like a snob. Especially since the sun has bleached his sandy brown hair, giving it blonde highlights.

It’s raining outside. Pouring. To the degree when wearing swim trunks and plastic flip flops seems like a valid option rather than using an umbrella or wearing a raincoat like Dean is. He takes a cab to the restaurant and gets there ten minutes early. Turns out Nick has booked a table by the window and Dean’s seated there to wait. He’s increasingly antsy, suddenly afraid Nick won’t show. That he’s punishing Dean for not answering his texts. That this is a (cruel) joke. By 17:10 Nick still hasn’t shown and Dean’s halfway through his second beer already. He’s just starting to wonder for how long he has to wait before he can leave when Nick finally enters.

Dean’s heart skips a beat when he lays eyes on Nick. He’s nervous all the sudden which is absurd and inexplicable. Nick looks harried as he looks around the restaurant but breaks out in a big relieved smile when he sees Dean at the table. He’s carrying a plastic bag and a blue rose in his hand and shakes out of his jacket as he walks up to Dean. “Hey. Sorry I’m late. Took a cab and got stuck in a traffic jam down on south due to flooding,” he says, putting the flower and bag on the table and hanging his jacket on the back of his chair. Then he turns towards Dean and pulls him in for a hug. Dean hadn’t even registered standing up when Nick approached, but he melts into the hug, starving for it. Nick’s skin and hair is wet from the rain and Dean associates his scent with relaxation, home, safety, and being happy. Dean has to stop himself from burrowing his nose in and inhale deeply of Nick’s scent and cologne. His stomach swoops when Nick kisses him on the cheek and says “Happy birthday,” before stepping away and handing him the rose.

Dean grins like the fucking moron he is. “How did you know? I never told you that.”

Nick hums noncommittally and sits down. “I’ll tell you in a bit, but first…” he looks around, catches the attention of the waitress, points at Dean’s beer and holds up two fingers, then turns his attention to Dean again.

“Where have you been?” Dean asks as he sits down. “You’ve been gone for a week. I’ve been bored out of my mind,” Dean confesses. ‘Bored’ isn’t quite the right word but it’s all he’s willing to admit to.

“Three weeks actually. I left the same day Mikey got home. I’ll tell you later. I just need to unwind a bit first.”

“Fair enough.” Dean takes a good look at Nick. He’s wearing dress pants, a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and a steel blue tie that matches his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed up before,” he remarks.

Nick shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. “Special occasion, right?”

Not really thinking about what he’s doing, Dean reaches over and drags a finger softly along Nick’s jawline. “You’ve shaved,” he says, his voice sounding all soft and wistful, startling himself into pulling his hand back. He almost thought he felt Nick lean into the touch just before he pulled back but writes it down to wishful thinking. “You look good. The tie makes your eyes pop,” he adds since his brain seems to be disconnected from his mouth. To stop further gushing he grabs his beer, takes a sip and lets the rim of the glass rest against his bottom lip. The moronic smile won’t let itself be erased from his face though and he briefly wonders what is wrong with him but then Nick’s cheeks colours prettily and makes it all worth it.

Nick grins self consciously and looks down on the table, sees his plastic bag and moves it to the chair next to him. He fusses with it for a bit. “You look good too.” He finally looks up, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “But then again, you’re always gorgeous so I don’t really need to tell you that, do I?”

It’s Dean’s turn to feel his cheeks heat up and his heart to do an excited little flutter. He finishes his beer and licks his lips. “I dunno, Nick. ‘Ts nice to hear it anyway. It’s just been me and my demons all week and they sure as hell don’t say nice things to me.” It’s not a topic he wants to talk about. He looks down on the rose he’s still holding, slowly rolling the stem between his fingers. There’s big thorns along the stem. For some reason he likes that. That something so and beautiful can tear you up and make you bleed if you're not careful. “Blue is a rare colour for a rose, isn’t it?” He looks up and quirks an eyebrow curiously, thus changing the subject.

“They are because there’s no such thing. They have to be coloured using dye in the water. I wanted to buy fifty of them but they thankfully didn’t have that many. Would have been a hassle since we’re meeting at a restaurant.” Nick does a dismissive gesture. “It was a symbolic thing anyway.”

“Why fifty? That a family thing for you Williams to go big? Mike gave me fifty red ones.”

A cloud passes over Nick’s expression. “Of course he did,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then he perks up again. “No. No, it means something. Speaking rose language I probably should have gone for yellow instead. Yellow roses stand for friendship. Although, in some culture yellow roses can also stand for jealousy, infidelity, and treachery.” Nick smiles at him but he’s fidgeting―adjusting his tie and his rolled up shirt sleeves―like the topic is making him nervous.

“Oh yeah? What does blue stand for?”

Nick draws breath as if to answer but hesitates. It’s enough to make Dean lean closer, curiosity truly piqued since Nick doesn’t seem to want to answer.

The waitress chooses that moment to appear with their beers and menu’s. She smiles warmly at them. “Here you go gentlemen,” she says.

Nick turns his attention to her. “Thank you―” he reads her name tag, “―Monica. Put everything on my tab, will you?”

“Yes, Sir. You and your boyfriend celebrating anything special today?”

“It’s his birthday. He’s my partner, not my boyfriend,” Nick answers, blushing slightly again. It’s been happening more often lately and it never fails to give Dean butterflies when he sees it. 

Monica rolls her eyes good naturedly. “Semantics.” To Dean she says “Congratulations. Call me over when you’re ready to order,” she says and leaves them with a wink.

“You don’t seem to mind her mistaking us for a couple,” Nick remarks when she’s gone.

On the contrary, it had made something go all warm and fuzzy inside Dean’s chest. He doesn’t say that of course. He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Of course not, sweetheart. Do you?” he says with a teasing lilt to his voice and a smirk playing on his lips.

Nick snorts in amusement and shakes his head. He lifts his beer to a toast. “To us,” he says.

“To us,” Dean echoes, clinking their glasses together before drinking. His fucking idiotic smile just won’t go away…

* * *

After dinner (Monica gave them dessert on the house) they idle with a tumbler of whiskey each when Nick gets serious. “I wanted to do something for you. It took me a while to get started but then I saw you filling in that job application and spotted your birth date so I decided to get it done before today and…” he runs his hand through his hair, stalling. “I wanted to give you this thing since Mikey hasn’t. Won’t. I wanted to make you happy…” He takes up the plastic bag and puts it on the table, smoothing the plastic down. “I… This won’t make you happy at all. I almost didn’t want to show it to you. That’s why I waited until after we’d eaten. In case it’d ruin your birthday…”

“Could you be a little more cryptic please? I almost understand what you’re saying,” Dean says dryly.

Nick chuckles self deprecatingly. “Alright. I’m sorry.” He takes a folder out of the bag and pushes it over to Dean. “Happy birthday,” he says with a sad smile.

“What is it?” Dean asks but Nick just motions for him to look. Dean opens the folder. The first thing he sees is a recent photo of Sam. His heart starts thumping wildly in his chest and his head snaps up to look at Nick with wide eyes. “Did you take this picture?”

“Mhm. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but your father died a couple of months ago in a heart attack. He’s been living in Canada for the last four years. It was a bit of a hassle tracking him down. Sam too proved elusive just like you said. I was out of town to confirm that he really was your brother because I didn’t want to tell you I found him just to discover I had the wrong guy.”

Dean looks down on the picture again and runs a finger over it almost reverently. “You found him,” he says redundantly. Sam’s a man grown now at 28. He looks great. Hair as long as Dean’s, big dimpled smile, clad in an expensive suit.

“I did. Everything I found is in that folder. He got married and took his wife’s surname. He goes by Samuel Moore nowadays and works full time as a politician. He’s done everything he can to distance himself from the Winchester name and subsequently, you and your dad. I’m sorry, Dean. There’s a lot of bad news in that folder. I suggest you take a closer look at it at home, in case you get emotional.”

Dean’s already really fucking emotional about this. He’s just not sure what emotions he’s feeling because there’s so many of them. His chest is constricting and his heart's in overdrive. The beginning of a lump is forming in his throat. He closes the folder―Nick’s right. If he starts reading now he’ll cry no matter if the information is good or bad. Nick found Sam for him. That’s what matters right now. He stands up and pulls Nick up and into a hug. ”Thank you.” It’s not big enough words to express his gratitude. Nick found Sam for him. That’s fucking huge!

“Don’t thank me. You’re not going to like what you read,” Nick says but holds on tightly to Dean nevertheless.

“Doesn’t matter.” He’s been hugging Nick for longer than what should be acceptable and would have continued to do so if Monica hadn’t gone by and uttered a little “ _Aww…_ ” behind his back. He lets go only to hook a hand behind Nick’s neck and lean their foreheads together. “Will you be mad at me if I go home right now to look at the folder?”

“No. It’s what I would do. Text me if you need me,” Nick says with a sad smile. “Just go. I’ll take care of the tab. It’s your birthday after all.”

* * *

Back in bed, with the blue rose in a vase on the nightstand and the folder in his lap Dean does break down and cry. Sam really had done everything he could to distance himself from Dean and dad. Why he would cut dad out remains a mystery to Dean. He want to have his brother back so badly, even if they’ll never be close. It won’t happen. Sam is a politician and a very conservative one. The anti-gay line he’s pushing isn’t what makes Dean break. It’s the pictures. Nick took a few himself but he also managed to get his hands on other pictures. Pictures from Sam’s college yearbooks, from his wedding, from election rallies―life events Sam didn’t want Dean to be part of. One of the pictures gives Dean a cold lump in the pit of his stomach. It’s one of the ones Nick took. It’s from a fund raiser where Sam is shaking hand with some hotshot, people in gala dresses and tuxedos in the background. And there, in the background, Dean spots Michael…

* * *


	19. The No Homo Crowd

* * *

# The No Homo Crowd

Weeks pass. Dean never mentions Sam to neither Mike or Nick, even if he thinks about his brother a lot. He knows there’ll be no welcome to be found if he seeks Sam out, so he doesn’t. He wonders if Mike knows that Samuel Moore is Dean’s brother but he doesn’t ask, afraid of how much hurt might come of it if he does. He’s started to wonder why he and Nick never hangs out at each other’s homes. Maybe he can understand why Nick doesn’t want to come home with him to Mike’s place, but why doesn’t he invite Dean to his place? He asks Nick about it. “It would be a bad idea,” is the only answer he gets, and when he asks why Nick just looks at him funny. 

One night when he’s really drunk he suggests that Nick should come stay in one of Mike’s guestrooms while he’s away. It’s a good idea. It would save Nick a whole lot of money after all. They can hang out, watch lousy TV shows together and pass out on the couch, make breakfast, play Xbox. It’d be great! Somehow this upsets Nick. “No. You don’t get it, do you? How come you don’t get it? You should know by now. For the love of god, Dean! How strong do you think I am?” Nick rants at him then stumbles off to pick up some chick that he leaves with. He doesn’t come back that night. Dean’s left wallowing in self-pity and hurt at the rejection. No. He doesn’t get it. They have a great time together, they fit together even when one of them is in a shitty mood. They could live together without driving each other mad. Hell, Nick still has a key to the penthouse that Mike gave him years ago, that’s how he got in the night they met. So what’s the problem? One way or another it must be Dean, and that hurts.

Another night his alcohol fueled brain makes him tell Nick that he’s been thinking about breaking up with Michael. How many times hasn’t Nick told him that he should? That he’s too good for Mike. That no longer holds true apparently. Nick’s quiet for a long time, his face flitting through a whole range of emotions Dean can’t read. At long last he says “Don’t.” Dean doesn’t ask why not. He’s hurt. It’s another rejection for an underlying question he didn’t really know he was asking. If he probes he might need to examine his motives, acknowledge why his heart skips a beat whenever Nick touches him or why he so often seem unable to wipe the moronic grin of his face when Nick gives him a compliment or looks at him a certain way. The answer would be that Nick doesn’t do sloppy seconds. He’s not good enough for Nick. Used up. Spent. Broken. So he doesn’t ask why not, just shrugs and changes the subject.

So life goes on. Mike comes home and spends a week worshipping him, spoiling him, and fucking him raw. He pushes Nick out of his mind and devotes himself zealously to Mike. He can’t get rid of that hollow ache in the pit of his stomach. He writes it down to general depression.

The ache goes away when Mike does and he’s back in Nick's presence. He’s always been a physical person, touching friends and strangers alike―a slap on the back, an arm around the shoulders, a friendly pat on the upper arm―but now he finds _any_ excuse to touch Nick. He may “keep it out of his eyes” but not out of his hands. A hand that would have been placed between the shoulders to guide the way is now placed lower, a touch that would have been brief lingers. The gap between them when they walk shrinks so more often than not their arms will brush. 

Now Dean, he knows what he's doing. How can he not? Even the briefest of touches sparks thrills of electricity and sets his heart aflutter. Prolonged contact makes him ache for more. It’s deliberate. He’s stealing what he can’t have.

But Nick? Nick does it too.

Slings an arm casually around Dean’s shoulder when they’re standing or walking, gives him teasing little jabs like smacking him on the ass “ _Move that lazy ass, Winchester._ ”, or chastising ones―smacks on the shoulders or the back of his head when he’s being a little shit on purpose. Brushes his fingers unnecessary when they pass things between them, puts his head on Dean’s shoulder to peek at what he’s doing or grabs his wrist to lead him somewhere.

Basically they touch each other _a lot_. 

When they’re at bars Nick will stand with his chest half leaned against Dean’s back while talking to the bartender, they’ll sit on barstools turned towards each other, so close their legs are touching, forming a diamond of space between them. Not as many people approach them trying to flirt anymore. More often than not they’re mistaken for a couple. Nick corrects them, telling people they’re partners (they _are_ , workwise) and Dean jokingly calls him “honey” or “baby” anytime it happens just because it makes Nick blush.

Dean’s not sure about how to interpret it all. Usually it’s quite straightforward, isn’t it? A guy can’t keep his hands off ya, he wants ya. Simple. Hell, sometimes Nick’s even downright flirting with him, he’s sure. But when Dean gets too flirty or fail to keep “sex” out of his eyes Nick withdraws or tells him off. Dean’s come to _hate_ the phrase “Dean, don’t.” He’s getting double signals. It’s complicated. He doesn’t _do_ complicated. But he will gratuitously take advantage of it. So it all puts them in the “No Homo”-crowd, which is kinda hilarious. Just bros pawing at each other. You know, like bros do. Except for the little detail that Dean wouldn’t mind choking on Nick’s dick occasionally, Michael be damned. Which bros don’t do. But that’s okay. As long as he has Nick as a friend he’ll deal. 

Sometimes they’re mistaken for a couple even when people _know_ they’re not.

Eli’s run down joint is awesome. Not because of the tragic loners who frequents the place, but because of Eli. One would think Dean would have second thoughts about returning to a place where the bartender has seen him bawl like a child and drink himself into the lowest of low. Embarrassing like hell, especially because Eli closed the bar to drive Dean home with Nick’s help. Eli however took it with zero judgement and a “Meh. We’ve all been there.” So for that reason Eli jumped from “bartender” to “friend” overnight. Dean and Nick stop by most days just to say hello, stay for an hour and then skip to the next place.

Dean slides onto the barstool and Eli turns around, smiling when he spots Dean. “Heya, Dean. Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks while uncorking a beer and sliding it in front of Dean.

“Still outta town. Won’t be home for another week.”

“Still? You were here with him yesterday.”

Dean frowns at him in confusion. “No I wasn't.” 

Eli looks at him funny, then switches his gaze towards the door, face smoothing out. “There he is,” he says and uncaps another beer, placing it on the bar disk beside Dean. 

Dean bemusedly starts turning around just as Nick’s arm is slung around his midriff. “Eli, my man,” Nick says in greeting and raises his beer towards Eli. 

A giggle bubbles out of Dean when he gets it. He throws his arm around Nick impishly. “Hi, sweetheart. Miss me?” he asks. 

Nick looks down on him with a smirk. “Of course, darling. It’s been minutes after all.” And there it is―the electric fucking everything that makes Dean soar and swoop and thrill on the inside and puts the moronic grin on his face. He has to remind himself they're just joking around. It does nothing to dispel the feeling. 

Later, when Nick’s off to take a piss, Dean turns to Eli. “Hey, Eli. You _know_ Nick and I are just friends, right? Not boyfriends. I'm dating his brother.”

Eli gives him a look full of scepticism. Nick comes back to stand next to the barstool where Dean’s sitting, drapes his arm around Dean’s shoulders and tucks an errant lock of Dean’s hair behind his ear (because bros do that to each other, okay?) before grabbing his beer. Eli raises an eyebrow in amusement and smirks. “Coulda fooled me,” he says dryly with a pointed look.

Dean blows a raspberry and sniggers. Nick looks between them suspiciously. “Did I miss something?”

“Nope,” Dean answers, popping the P and gives him a shit eating grin. Nick looks at Eli who shakes his head with a neutral expression. Nick makes a sturgeon face and takes a swig of his beer, losing interest. Dean’s all fluttery. People don't know Nick has made clear he doesn’t want anything more with Dean, or that he and his brothers are physical with their affection, platonic or otherwise. Dean’s not at all averse to the mix up.

Sometimes when he’s drunk, the true state of what he’s feeling bleeds through. Like when they’re at a karaoke bar. Dean goes up to sing a Bryan Adams song and when he belts out “ _Can't stop this thing we started, You gotta know it's right. Can't stop this course we've plotted. This thing called love we got it!_ ” while pointing at Nick, he _knows_ it’s true. But usually he pretends they're just bros being bros. He's happy and that's what matters. No Homo, right?

* * *


	20. Not This Time

* * *

# Not This Time

Time flies when you're having fun. Life settles into a nice routine. Michael is home every third week now and only stays for a week, which would suck if he hadn't stopped working at the office here and singularly devotes himself to Dean when he’s home. It’s a change that came about after Dean's freak out about Sullivan. So every third week Dean gets his libido and craving for romance satiated and then the rest of the time he gets other needs taken care of. It’s not perfect, but it's enough. Any doubt and discordants can be ignored. He can live with that. 

Of course, it can't last. 

One day Nick comes to work at the docks and he's closed off and distant. He avoids eye contact and his answers are one worded and bitten off. His mood seems to be getting increasingly worse every time he looks at Dean. Unease rolls around Dean’s stomach and by the time lunch comes around he's ready to puke from anxiety. 

Nick drops a crate, curses angrily and gives it a kick. “ _Fuck!_ I need a smoke.” He stomps off to the side while lighting a cigarette with jerky movements. He takes short sharp drags on it, looking out over the sea with a fierce scowl. 

Dean hunches unconsciously, making himself smaller, continuing to work with carefully slow moves and heart jumping frightfully in his chest while never letting his eyes stray from the tense line of Nick’s back. Anger is literally radiating from Nick and Dean must be the cause since his temper had been getting more volatile every time he looked at Dean. 

Dean has the impulse to run away and hide. But he’s a soldier, goddammit! He puts down the crate he’s been holding, digs up his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and taps out two, putting one behind his ear like a safety blanket and lights the other. He takes a deep drag to calm himself and blows three smoke rings, stalling. Then he very cautiously walks over to Nick. “Nick?” he says hesitantly. “You okay, man?”

Nick whirls on him, fixing him with a glare so hateful Dean has to stop himself from taking a step back and shrinking in on himself. “That question is a little redundant, don’t you think?”

“I guess… what did I do?”

“ _You?_ You didn't do anything save for existing.” Nick steps up to him, shoulders squared, all up in his face, and pokes him in the chest with two fingers almost hard enough to bruise. “It’s that fucking bitchass, fucktard of a _boyfriend_ of yours,” Nick grits out through ferally bared teeth. “You can go ahead and tell him that if I ever see him again I'm gonna fuck him up so bad they'll only be able to identify him through fucking dna!”

Dean turns his head away to take a hit on his cigarette. He can see that Nick’s itching for a fight, ready to explode on anyone. Dean’s not very keen to play along since he has no idea what the problem is. Adrenaline is shooting through his system in preparation for a clash. He looks back at Nick again and blows the smoke out calmly, angling it downward not to aggravate Nick further. “Yeah… I'm not gonna do that,” he answers, surprised at how unruffled he sounds. “What’s up, Nicky?”

Nick stares him down for another tense moment before visibly reining himself in and taking a step back. He turns around and begins stalking back and forth while letting loose an angry rant. “He has it all. He has it fucking all. Always had, always will. The best things, and still he wants more. Just calling dibs, like the self-entitled fucking asshole he is and then doing nothing with it. I _hate him._ He’s got no fucking spine, and his nose is so far up Father’s ass, that he sees nobody else.” 

He stops and pokes Dean in the chest, not as hard this time. “All those years, living in his fucking shadow, doing his fucking dirty work for him. Now he refuses to even speak to me and I still end up having to do his fucking dirty work for him. _He_ gets to reap all the benefits, and what do I get, huh? Tell me! I deserve so much better!”

He takes a couple of short drags on his cigarette and then starts pacing again. The ‘fight-me’ vibe has receded a couple of notches thankfully, despite him still fuming. “I used to idolize him. Now I work so hard _not_ to be like him. But he’s making it so hard. I _don't_ want to be like him and do the things he did to me. I'm supposed to be the better man, dammit!”

He stops, whirls to look at Dean, flicking his cigarette butt away. “And there you are. Making it so hard to still be respectful and loyal to Mikey. Every time he fucks you over _I_ have to be the one breaking it to you. I'm sick and tired of it! I refuse to do it this time, okay? Not this time!”

“What did he do?”

“No. Not this time. I'm not doing this,” he says and stomps off. Dean follows him with his gaze and is surprised to see him get on his bike and leave.

* * *

Dean doesn’t see or hear from Nick for two days. On the third day he shows up at the docks looking like shit, two full bags of all his stuff loaded unto his bike. He’s got dark circles under his eyes, and when Dean comes near enough he can smell that Nick’s in dire need of a shower. “Heya, Nick. You _roughing_ it?” Dean asks in bafflement. 

Nick’s straddling his bike. He looks down, holding his own hand, rubbing it, as if he's comforting himself. He makes a sturgeon face and shrugs, avoiding Dean’s gaze. He hums. “I'm sorry I lost my shit on you. It won’t happen again,” he answers evasively. 

“Hey, hey,” Dean says and grabs Nick’s shoulder to get him to meet his gaze. “I don’t care about that. You okay, man? What's happened?”

Nick looks up hesitantly, then smirks in fake bluster. “I got evicted.” He shrugs again, like it’s no biggie. “Could you lend me some cash until I've earned some? I'm kinda in a jam.”

“Nick. Talk to me. Why'd you get evicted?” Dean knows Nick had some dough stashed away. If it's gone, shit’s turned bad indeed. 

Nick takes a deep breath through his nose. He hesitates again, then the bluster leaves him. “I was angry and I took it out on my room. Trashed the place. My money went to replacing the damage,” he admits. 

“So you got no place to stay?”

Nick shakes his head. 

“You can stay with me.”

Nick shakes his head decisively. “No. That’s a bad idea. I just need to borrow some cash, Dean. Yes or no?”

“Fuck no. You ain't borrowing shit. We're going to get you a room, and I'll pay for it with Mike’s money.”

Nick scrutinizes him for a beat, deliberating. Then he grunts. “Thanks.”

* * *

They find a good place Dean’s stayed at before. A room with a kitchenette and both washer and dryer in the bathroom. Dean pays for the first two months. He offers to pay for more, but Nick insists on him not doing so.

The motel lies a little bit outside of the city. That isn't a bother, Nick has his bike, and it's the location that makes it affordable. It’s barrack-like in its layout and Dean waits in a chair outside while Nick showers. Nick joins him, bumming a smoke from him once he’s freshened up.

“So what really happened, Nicky?” Dean asks when they're both basking in the sun outside. 

“I told you, I ain’t gonna be the messenger this time,” Nick rebuffs. 

“Come on. You gotta give me something. We're partners, aren’t we?”

Nick scrutinizes him for a long while, smoking his cigarette. Long enough for Dean’s skin to start crawling in anxiety. Then he suddenly averts his gaze. “Let’s just say, it's lucky you don’t read Gold Crusted, and leave it at that.”

“What’s that?”

“A gossip magazine for the rich and famous on Wall Street and within the business world.”

Dean snorts in amused derision. “You read that crap?”

Nick rolls his eyes in annoyance. “Well what can I say, darling? My family is frequently in it.”

That’s all Dean gets from Nick before the usual stonewall is thrown up.

* * *

Dean finds himself a copy of Gold Crusted. It’s expensive as fuck and consists mostly of ads on glossy paper, useless gossip within. Dean leafs through it, bored out of his mind, until he reaches the middle and forgets how to breathe for a moment, utterly shellshocked. 

`Michael Williams and Lady Toni Bevell are happy to announce their engagement. `

`“I had almost given up on Mike,” Lady Toni says, joyfully showing off her diamond ring. “But then he finally popped the question and we're so happy!”`

`“What can I say? Father demanded it, or else. ..,” Michael jokes as an offset to his fiancé’s enthusiasm. `

`Lady Toni goes on to tell us: “Mike is extremely unromantic. And he never expresses his love in words. So I knew something was up when he brought me to the finest restaurant in town, and gave me roses. He proposed with a ring in the champagne glass. Not the most clever proposal, but I forgive him that due to his lack of imagination.” `

Dean reads the whole interview. To be honest, if it wasn’t for the big, shiny pictures of Mike and that blonde, British cunt, smiling at the camera, Dean wouldn’t have recognised Mike on the description. Mike is one romantic S.O.B. He declares his love openly and is a very creative courtier, even if he’s missed every anniversary they had. He had a talent for making you feel special and adored. All that is drowned out by the photos of the couple. Mike with his arm around the bitch, smiling his picture perfect smile, a photo of the diamond ring, and one with the two pressing their lips together in a kiss.

_Mike is engaged._

Dean’s world feels like it's falling apart. 

He reads the article over and over. The two have apparently been dating for nine months, and don't live together yet. The wedding date hasn't been set, but the cunt assures the magazine that it’s going to be a big wedding. She’s the heiress to the Bevell Industries, and is as rich as Mike is, if not richer. 

`On the question if there’s any plans to have kids, Michael answers “Two. Apparently.” Lady Toni laughs and scolds her fiancé lovingly for seeming so morose about it. But Michael assures her he's only joking. `

Kids.

Somebody else is going to marry and have kids with _his_ boyfriend. 

Dean’s too numbstruck to cry.

* * *

Dean’s just woken up from a gory nightmare when he hears something in the lounge. He rolls out of bed and grabs his gun from the nightstand drawer, adrenaline already coursing in his body from the dream, heart in his throat.

He sneaks to the doorway and peeks out, seeing nothing. He steps out, grim faced and poised to shoot, sweeps the room and notes movement. He begins squeezing the trigger without even thinking about it. Then his brain recognise the intruder and he freezes.

“Dean!” Mike exclaims in relief. 

Mike looks frayed. He's got dark circles under his eyes, his tie isn’t perfect, and his hair is in a disarray. _He’s engaged,_ Dean’s mind supplies. For a crazy moment, Dean actually considers pulling the trigger, pulse racking up higher, thumping loudly in his ears, making it hard to hear. Hurt mixed with anger and fearful adrenaline lingering from the nightmares, doesn’t make a good combo. His face remains hard, finger on the trigger.

“Dean. It’s me. Mike. You’re at home, safe,” Mike says, expression still relieved, walking towards him with his palms held up to show he’s unarmed. No fear.

Gotta hand it to the Williams boys, they sure as shit ain’t afraid of naked guys with guns.

Still, Dean doesn’t lower the gun. He’s sober enough to imagine it. Just get Mike back by putting a bullet in his head. The entrance hole straight in his forehead, skull exploding in the back, blood spraying, brains and shards of bone flying, Mike’s head slammed back by the force, taking his body with it in a backwards fall.

It triggers a flicker of pictures in Dean’s brain. Ennis, bloody and unseeing, dead. Benny, Zeddmore, Edgar, Ash, friends, lovers, brothers. _Dead, dead, dead._ Mike - _dead_ , gone. Michael with his bright eyes and sweetness. With his energy and patience. With his playfulness, easy laughter, and worshipping hands and mouth. Gone. _Forever._

Dean lowers the gun so fast he almost drops it, shaking and nauseous in the wake of the wave of panic of almost losing Mike. “Christ, Mike, you dickwad! I told you, never sneak up on me when I’m asleep! I coulda killed you!” It’s the first time Mike comes home early for real. According to his travel plan he shouldn't be home for another two days, like he’d said. Mike comes within touching range and Dean grabs a hold of him and pulls him in, wrapping his arms around him with a shaky breath. “You’re early,” he adds.

Mike melts into his embrace with a heavy sigh. “I know. But I needed to be with you. It’s been rough, and I missed you too much.”

“What? A merger didn’t go as planned?” Dean jokes.

“Something like that,” Mike agrees without humour. “Could we go to bed? I just want to hold you.” He clings to Dean like he was a lifeboat in a storm, so maybe he’d been frightened by the gun after all.

Dean inhales the scent of his hair deeply, expecting for something to be different. But aside from the hurt, he still feels the same. It’s as good to have Mike back in his arms as it always is. He kisses Mike’s temple. “Sounds like a plan.”

For once they don’t fuck. Mikey just lies holding onto him tightly until they both fall asleep. Dean wonders if this is a goodbye. If Mike’s breaking up with him and is tired of fucking him now that he has a fiancé. He dreads the thought. But the last thing he hears while slipping into sleep, is Mike mumbling “ _I love you so much…_ ”

The fear of Mike not wanting him anymore is promptly dispelled upon wakeup. And whatever Dean has going on with Nick, it doesn’t change the fact that Mike too, gives him palpitations and butterflies. He loves Mike. That doesn’t stop just because he’s hurt. He comforts himself by thinking that any time spent with him, is time he isn’t with that British, boyfriend-stealing _cunt_. Now her, he wouldn’t mind putting a bullet in…

* * *


	21. Lions Mating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say, that this is my favourite chapter. :) I love it and I'm anxious to hear your reactions. :D

* * *

# Lions Mating

2 years, 1 month (1 year, 4 months)

Dean has never seen Nick pick up a guy. Until now.

He’s standing, back leaned against the bar, watching Nick and the guy on the dance floor. The guy is above average height―though not as tall as Dean and Nick―broad shouldered, sandy blond hair, and freckled. Fucking freckles. You can’t see it from here of course, but it was clear when he’d stood beside them by the bar.

Dean’s not dumb or in denial enough not to recognise what the black vitriolic goo pumping in his system in lieu of blood, poisoning everything in its wake, is. It’s jealousy. The darkest kind. The ugly, possessive, hateful kind that makes people pull a trigger and think themselves justified. A feeling he has no right to feel―not about Nick. Yet it had been building since the moment Nick switched on the charm for this guy. Dean’s been trying to put that fire out by dosing it with whiskey. _Yeah. Great idea. How’s that working out for ya?_ , he thinks bitterly.

He can hear his own pulse whooshing in his ears with each angry heartbeat. It’s bad when that happens. It’s the number one warning that he’s losing his grasp on his temper. He should walk the fuck away ASAP. He doesn’t. His eyes are locked on Nick and the guy moving to the beat of the music, the kind of dance that’s really just an excuse to edge closer, hold on to each other’s hips, and soon enough start grinding. Socially acceptable frottage. It won’t be long until Nick takes the guy out back or to the toilets where whatever happens won’t be acceptable to the public eye.

Nick starts doing that thing with his shoulders, where he curves himself around his partner, over powering them and encasing them in his presence, gearing up for the kiss.

Dean’s not even aware that he’s moved before he’s on the dance floor, grabbing onto Nick’s arm and forcefully tearing him away with a growl. “Time to go,” he bites out while staring threateningly at the freckled guy and tugging at Nick. 

‘ _Freckles_ ’ proves that he has no sense of self preservation by sputtering indignantly and reaching for Nick like he’s planning to tug Nick out of Dean’s grasp. “Hey! You can't just―”

That's all the guy gets out. Really, it was plain in Dean’s face for the world to see that he wasn't to be trifled with at the moment. And honestly? Dean doesn’t even hear what the guy is saying, the rushing noise in his ears drowns it out. All he gets, is that the guy is making a grab for Nick and that’s the only incentive he needs to let go of the reins of his rage. He drops Nick’s arm, grabs ‘Freckles’ by the collar, and throws a punch - shutting him up. He hits the nose with a sickening crunch, his grip on the guy’s collar preventing him from collapsing before Dean’s hit him twice more in rapid succession and is pulled away. 

Dean whirls on whoever’s pulling at him, prepared to lash out. Even through the red haze of testosterone, rage, alcohol, and adrenaline he catches himself before attacking Nick. Nick’s screaming something at him he can’t hear but he gets that he's supposed to follow so he lets Nick pull him along. 

People make way for them as they hurry towards the exit and out. Outside Nick’s still pulling him along, yelling “ _Run_!” straight into his ear. He can do that, so he does, following Nick blindly once Nick lets go of him. 

They run until Dean’s legs and lungs are burning and he can’t hide his limp any more for the pain shooting through his leg with every step. He’s still angry but the red haze has receded enough for him to hear again. Suddenly Nick turns around and pushes him straight into a wall. The move takes him by surprise and almost knocks the wind out of his lungs. 

“ _The hell_ , Dean?!” Nick is panting hard, cheeks flushed from exertion, and is glaring angrily at him. “You could've done some real damage to that guy. Are you trying to get us arrested?!” He's mad but Dean's meeting glare for glare, baring his teeth. They’re in the middle of a narrow dead end alley―no more than a gap between two houses filling no function except bad city planning. “Stop acting like a jealous boyfriend!”

Dean pushes Nick into the opposite wall with a fierce scowl. “Then don’t go whore yourself out to other guys in front of me and I won't _have_ to!” Nick's eyes widens in disbelief, still layered with anger. Dean vaguely recognise that he's said something wrong, but that inky poison is still pumping strong in his veins and the hazy rage may be diminished, but nowhere near gone. “Next time I see you letting a guy cop a feel in front of me, I'll kill him. You hear me? _I'll fucking kill him!_ ”

Nick's looking at him like he’s never seen him before, mouth compressed to a thin line, eyes wide and brows drawn down.

Oh, but Dean's on a roll now. Continuing on this clusterfuck of a Freudian landslide like an express train. “Am I not pretty enough for you, Nick? Can't get your hands dirty handling someone so broken, used up? ‘Fraid to touch a piece of trash like me lest you might catch something?” Dean’s voice is full of bitterness, his face twisted in an ugly grimace. "Sorry, I forgot. You don’t _do_ your brother's sloppy seconds!” He spins around and rams his fist into the brick wall repeatedly. He feels the skin over his knuckles break and he knows that tomorrow his hand will be swollen and blue. None of that matters now. Adrenaline and alcohol masks the pain and he just _needs_ to hit something. 

Nick yanks him around forcefully. Dean anticipates a punch, what he doesn’t anticipate is to be shoved up the wall by Nick’s body and Nick’s mouth on his. The violent aggression within Dean melts into another kind of aggression. He winds his arms around Nick as soon as his brain catches on to what is happening with a resounding inner _YES_ , pulling him closer, grabbing onto his shirt and ass―clinging, pulling.

The kiss is as much a fight as what Dean did to ‘Freckles’ back at the bar was―that’s to say, not at all. It’s Nick overtaking him and he’s mentally powerless―unwilling―to defend himself, can only open up and let Nick have whatever he wants. There’s a reason why this shouldn’t happen. He knows that. But the _why_ is lost in the sheer relief and want of it. They’re kissing, nipping, sucking, and panting harshly into each other’s mouths. Nick’s pissed off. It’s evident in the way his fingers dig in to leave bruises in Dean’s skin by his hips, ribs, biceps. His hand finds Dean’s long hair, digs in, twists, and pulls Dean’s head backwards to expose his throat (and _oh god_ , why didn’t he grow it long decades ago instead of teasing Sammy about it?). He mouths at Dean’s neck and throat while yanking at his belt to get it open.

As soon as Nick’s mouth leaves his, words starts spilling out of Dean’s mouth of its own violation. ‘Words’ may be pushing it. It's more like a long unbroken chant. " _NickNickNickComeoncomeoncomeonNickNickNick_ ”

Nick gets Dean’s pants open and tugs them down, spins Dean around and pushes him back up against the wall, draping himself over Dean’s back, all warm and fucking perfect. Nick’s mouthing at the soft skin behind his ear and Dean arches to rub his ass against Nick’s still fucking _clothed_ erection. “Tell me no,” Nick growls into his ear, voice all rough and wrecked. 

" _Fuck me, Nick!_ ”

Nick hisses between his teeth, his breath sending shivers down Dean’s spine. “Tell me to fucking stop, Dean. I _will_ stop if you do,” he repeats, bites at the knob of Dean’s spine and that’s fucking it! _Lions mating_.

“Don’t you fucking stall or I’ll fucking slug you! Just fuck me already,” Dean growls angrily and glares at Nick over his shoulder. Nick holds his gaze for a beat, eyes intense, bordering on madness, blue drowned by the blackness of his pupils. Then he bares his teeth, more a pleased snarl than a smile. He digs something out of his pocket and shoves Dean again who scrapes his forehead against the brick wall, not really feeling it over the thrill of this happening. Dean braces a hand against the wall and grabs his dick in the other, jerking himself off to relieve some pressure. He’s not sure what Nick’s doing until he feels a lubed up finger probe at his hole. Nick pushes in, not gently but still too slow for Dean’s liking. He mouths at Dean’s neck and soon gets another finger in. It burns. It’s okay. Dean wants to scream in frustration. Who the hell has time for prepping in a moment like this? He fucking _needs_ Nick inside of him since ages ago. “Fuck prepping, Nick. Gimme your fucking cock. Push in slowly an we’ll be okay. Just fuck me. Baby, come on, come on comeoncomeon,Nickfuckmepleasecomeon!”

Thankfully Nick listens to his protests about the care for his comfort. He hears Nick fumble with his own pants, there’s a rip of a condom wrapper, the fingers disappears from his hole and there’s Nick’s dick _fucking FINALLY_ pushing against his hole, one of Nick’s arms coming around his midriff to keep him stable and Dean stills, focusing on relaxing. This is the fast-forward way to do it, and it hurts. Dean wants it this way―but if Nick goes too fast it will go from burning to blinding pain that even Dean can’t ignore. Nick doesn’t though. He pushes in slowly, paying great attention to when and how much Dean relaxes before pushing in little by little. It’s perfect. Just enough pain to keep the aggression aflame, but not enough to switch arousal off. For a moment the only sound is their joint ragged breathing. 

Nick bottoms out, still draped over Dean’s back. Dean twists his head so they can kiss. It's an awkward angle. They’re not so much kissing as licking at each other’s tongues. It’s all the same to Dean. There’s still the taste he’s been dying to taste for months. The familiar taste of whiskey and cigarettes along with the new and unique taste of Nick himself. Nick’s hands find their way inside his shirt, the rough pads of his fingers caressing the soft skin of his belly and chest. He sucks in a breath and twitches when Nick smooths over his nipples, which makes Nick smile and pinch lightly. 

"Come on, Nick. Get to it. I'm good to go,” Dean urges. Nick leans back, grabs a hold of Dean’s hips and hair and starts moving. The first couple of thrusts are slow and somewhat careful, like he's gauging the truth of Dean’s statement. Then he really gets going, slamming into Dean hard and fast so the sound of their bodies slapping together echoes through the alley. Dean keeps himself braced against the wall with a forearm and jerks himself off with quick movements with his other hand. His mouth starts spilling words again. “Yeah, like that, come on, baby, come on. Fuck me good, Nick, fuck me, _fucking breed me_!” For a moment he’s horrified that he said that out loud. It’s a phrase he keeps in his head, feeling weird about it being a turn on. But Nick kind of stutters and hisses between his teeth and that's all the encouragement Dean needs to run his mouth freely. 

“comeonNickbreedmemakemeyourbitchNick _breedme_ comeon” Dean feels his own orgasm building fast so it takes him by surprise when Nick suddenly pulls out. Dean starts turning around with an enraged sound of protest. Nick rams him back into the wall, keeping him pinned by pushing his forearm to Dean’s neck. The move scrapes Dean’s forehead and cheekbone against the brick. Dean’s pretty sure he hears Nick full on _growling_ behind him, fumbling with something. Before Dean’s figured out what he’s doing he’s pushing back in and it feels better somehow, but why eludes Dean.

Nick bottoms out again with a punched out “ _Fuck_!”, grabs Dean’s hair (which is fast becoming one of Dean’s favourite things!) with the arm that had kept him pinned and pulls him back for a kiss while grinding his hips slowly.

When Nick’s mouth leaves his Dean says it again. “Breed me.” Nick utters a little bubbly laugh that sounds like he’s between happiness, disbelief, and hysterics. Nevertheless, he grabs Dean’s hips and gets back to pounding him in earnest. Dean arches his back and _there_ it is. Nick hits his prostate and he’s beyond words. His orgasm is building fast. It suddenly clicks what Nick had done when he pulled off so suddenly. “ _Sonnova bitch_!” Dean swears and comes, hearing Nick cursing behind him as he clenches around Nick’s cock. Nick fucks him through it. Once Dean’s come back down he turns his head to throw a dazed look and a lopsided smirk over his shoulder. “Come on, baby. Fill me up,” he says.

Nick’s movements stutters, he folds over Dean’s back and comes with a bitten off hiss, his eyes squeezed shut. He grinds his hips, twitching and jerking with every wave of his orgasm, biting down on the knob of Dean’s spine as if to keep Dean still while he comes. It’s so fucking _hot_ , fit for Discovery Channel. 

They stand like that―Nick's arms coming around to hold him under his shirt―until their breathing become less ragged and their heartbeats slows to normal, Nick mouthing the skin on his throat and neck lazily. Dean’s fucking happy. He revels in the warm weight of Nick over his back. Now the rush is dying down, his stomach is full of butterflies and swoops with every touch of Nick’s lips and fingers on his skin. He can feel Nick inside of him still, going soft. He’s afraid to move lest Nick slips out of him. When he does his come will run down Dean’s leg, and the thought makes Dean smile. Nick had actually fucking taken ‘breed me’ literally and pulled out to tear the condom off! Dean thinks if Nick had warned him he was about to do that it would probably have pushed Dean right over. It’s another thing on the list of no-no’s that they’ve broken today but Dean doesn’t care. It’s hot and he loves it. 

“You okay…?” Nick says at last, reluctantly pushing off Dean and tucking himself into his underwear. 

_Christ!_ Dean wishes he hadn't asked and made Dean aware of his aches. Now the adrenaline has worn off and his leg is pounding so bad after the sprint that it's a miracle he’s even upright. He closes his eyes and leans his head on his forearms, hearing Nick zip up behind him. 

When he doesn’t answer Nick pulls Dean’s pants up and spins him around, gently this time. “Dean?” there’s a note of worry in his voice. He puts a hand under Dean’s chin, urging him to raise his head. Dean opens his eyes and meets his gaze. “You alright?” Nick asks again, spots the scrapes he’s caused on Dean’s face and frowns. He reaches a hand out to gently touch the damage. 

“Don’t worry about that, sweetheart,” Dean says with a little smile and captures Nick’s hand in his own, placing a soft kiss on his knuckles. It’s odd how easy endearments spill from his lips where Nick is concerned. “I'll fucking cherish _those_ marks. Right now though my leg is killing me and I'm trying to figure out how the hell I'm gonna be able to walk from here.”

Nick digs into his pocket and comes up with his painkillers. He hands Dean two. “You'll have to dry swallow,” he remarks and takes one himself before putting them away. Then he leans in for a kiss and cards through Dean’s hair, untangling the mess he's made. There’s no tongue this time, just gentle movements of lips against lips. Dean’s chest feels like it's about to explode with all the emotions he’s feeling, all of them good. Nick taps the hand Dean’s holding the pills in. “Take them,” he urges, lips still pressed against Dean’s. 

Dean chuckles. “I would. ‘Cept I've got some big time distraction coverin’ my mouth.”

Nick smiles and steps away far enough for Dean to take the pills. He goes down on his knees before Dean and kisses his stomach while adjusting Dean’s dick, zipping him up, closing the button and belt. He stays down there, rubbing his nose and lips gently over Dean’s belly, caressing his sides with those wonderful strong hands Dean’s fantasised about. 

“You keep that up and you're gonna get me going again,” Dean warns fondly and swallows the pills. They’re hard to get down without water but he manages.

Nick hums, smiling against his skin. “I don’t see why that's a reason to stop. I've been wanting to do this since I first saw you naked.”

Dean chuckles and pets Nick’s hair, “What? Cuddle my fucking belly?”

“Yes. It’s so soft…”

Dean grins. "Shut up, asshole. I can’t get rid of that pudge no matter how much I work out. Don’t rub it in.”

“I like it.” As if to accentuate his point Nick bites softly at the little bulge of fat below Dean’s abs.

“You like my freckles and you like my pudge. What else do you like about me that I don't,” Dean asks with amusement. On the inside he’s all warm and fluttery.

“I don’t know what you don’t like about you. But out of what I _do_ know I'd say your brattiness and your vindictive mean-streak.” He pauses to kiss Dean’s belly, chuckle darkly and adds “And I suppose I have to add your jealousy to that list. Which I will never admit to having said once I've sobered up.” He reluctantly gets to his feet only to attach himself to Dean’s smiling lips. Dean responds by winding his arms around him.

“You wouldn’t happen to like any of my good qualities, would you?”

“You have any?” Nick teases with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. 

If that was said by the wrong person it might have played on Dean’s insecurities, but with Nick it is just a funny joke. “Doubtfully,” Dean answers without missing a beat. And because he can, he kisses Nick again. They stand there leaning against the wall trading lazy kisses, holding each other, until the painkillers melts the pain away and Dean’s head starts feeling fuzzy. “I need a smoke,” he says. 

Nick digs up his pack and lights two, handing one over. “You’re quite a dirty talker,” he remarks. “I wouldn't have guessed.”

“Sometimes I guess. It's kinda circumstantial.”

“Ts good you were. I didn’t need to question if you wanted it. I was fucking rough on you.”

“I like it.” Dean chuckles, blows a smoke ring and closes his eyes. Everything is a bit hazy and warm. “I don’t think I really liked my long hair until you grabbed onto it and yanked me around.” 

Nick snorts in amusement. “It makes you look a bit bratty. But then again, you _are_ a brat at times.” He runs his hand through Dean’s hair, combing it into a backslick. “I like it. Ts better than a crewcut.”

“I look good in a crewcut.”

Nick hums. “The blessings of natural beauty. Looking good in anything.”

Dean smiles but doesn’t open his eyes. They smoke in silence for a while before Nick speaks up again. “Does… does Mikey fuck you like this?” The question comes quietly, reluctantly, like he doesn’t really want to ask.

Dean cracks an eye open but Nick is looking at his feet, not at Dean. “What? Bareback or like a fucking animal overtaking his mate?”

Nick’s eyes flick to Dean, but he looks away again as soon as he sees Dean watching him. “The second one.”

Dean feels like giggling. He realises it would be inappropriate and holds it in, barely. He’s drunk and high. It’s the pain meds. Definitely the pills causing the warm fuzzy giddiness. It was as much a blessing as a mistake to take two. “No. Your brother doesn’t do rough this way. He’s just not, I dunno, there’s nothing apex about him in bed.” You shouldn’t talk about your boyfriend with the person you’re cheating with. Big no-no. “I’d never ask him to…” The giggle comes unbidden due to his own embarrassment. “...to breed me cuz he wouldn’t be able to do it right,” he finishes, cheeks heating up and moronic grin on his face. Yup. Definitely high.

Nick looks up, unsure at first, but his expression shifts to something else―something darkly satisfied―before he looks down again and takes a long inhale on his cigarette, like he doesn’t want Dean to see that darkness. Dean thinks he could get off thinking about Nick looking like that, no other images required. 

“I had a drill sergeant, Paul Steward, when I was a recruit,” Dean begins to tell Nick. “Tall guy, broad, jaw you could cut rocks on and a bitchface that could lay a man to waste. We were scared shitless of him. Real hardass. If you met him you’d think he was totally straight and the worst kind of homophobe.” Dean pauses to blow three smoke rings.

“I take it he wasn’t.”

Dean chuckles and shakes his head. “He, uh. He called me into his office and I knew I was in trouble. ‘You know about the army’s Don’t ask, don’t tell policy, Dean?’ he said. ‘It won’t affect you because you’re flaunting your homosexuality like a goddam showgirl!’ he said. I was so sure I was gonna be kicked out right then…” Nick watches him and Dean studies the cherry of his cigarette. “‘You think the army needs strong, talented, able bodied men with pretty faces who takes it up the ass?’ he asked. Then he leaned up close to my side with a sneer on his face…” Dean snorts in amusement thinking about it. “I was all but trembling in my boots by then. He was fucking intimidating, okay?” Dean shakes his head, smile on his face. “‘You’re goddam right, we do. So you’re gonna have to hide it better,’ he said. It totally blindsided me. He told me that every time he’d catch me checking guys out or be obvious about it in any way he’d punish me with additional exercise until I learned. Then he added ‘Or…’ and just let it hang.”

“Or what?” Nick prompts.

“You know I’m not some submissive little obedient twink that will take it like this from just anyone, right?” Dean asks with a little smirk and flicks his cigarette butt away. Slut? Yes. Submissive? No.

“That much is obvious to me, yes,” Nick concedes with a last draught on his cig.

“But some guys… Paul had it. You have it. That presence. Where you just dominate with your aura alone. _Fuck_ , I don’t know how many times I’ve watched you pick up chicks just to go home and jerk off, thinking it was me instead of her… I fucking love it. That presence. I can submit to it like a fucking bitch in heat without feeling less of a… Hell, this is gonna sound fucked up, Nick. I dunno what you must think of me.”

“Go on. Feel like what?” Nick urges. His face gives away nothing but interest.

“Like a lion, okay? Like we fucked right now, we were two lions mating. That’s what it feels like. I can submit and still be a fierce fucking predator.” Dean snorts a self-deprecating laugh. What was it about Nick that made him confess things like this? “Paul had it too so when he offered to fuck the everliving crap out of me I couldn’t wait to drop my pants. Every time he caught me checking guys out or flirting too obvious he’d fuck me so bad I could barely walk. I was bruised and battered more often than not. The other guys thought he beat me up for no reason and felt sorry for me. I was floating on clouds every time.”

Nick laughs. “He fucked the gay out of you?”

“Literally.”

“You had a crush on him?”

“Fuck no. I had the hots for him.”

“You got the hots for me too?” Nick asks and drops his cigarette butt, grinding it out with his boot. The question is asked in such a carefully neutral way it gives Dean pause even in his hazy high.

“You know I’ll never tell you, right?”

“Tell me what?”

“Just because I don't say it doesn’t mean I don't feel it.” It's not much but Dean would never have admitted this much if he was sober. He’s not sure his message gets across. Nick looks a bit unsure. Trying to get his confession across without actually saying it outright he grabs Nick by the collar and pulls him in for a kiss, putting as much feelings as he can into it. It's probably not enough. After all, a kiss is just a kiss. You'll have to guess what the other guy really means with it. He hopes Nick gets it. He’s afraid of it too.

Nick's smiling when they come up for air. He burrows his nose into the crook of Dean’s neck and just holds him close, all warm and solid and perfect. For a long while they just stand like that. Dean’s feeling increasingly drowsy. The pills, the alcohol, the adrenaline surge, and the emotional outlet is catching up to him. Nick must feel it because he says “Come on. Let’s get you home. Mikey will be home in less than six hours.”

* * *


	22. Trash

* * *

# Trash

2 years, 1 month (1 year, 4 months)

Dean hasn’t bothered showering or undressing since Nick left him outside the door to Michael’s penthouse. He crashed head first into the soft couch by the cinema system and fell asleep. Michael shakes him awake what feels like seconds later. “Dean? Are you okay? What happened?”

Dean takes his time opening his eyes. His leg hurts, his head is pounding from a hangover, and one of his hands is throbbing painfully. “Whsmh?” Eloquent. He scrambles internally to remember what happened. _Oh. That’s right._

“What happened to you?” Mike asks again when Dean opens his eyes and squints at him. He looks so worried it’s almost funny.

“I let your brother fuck me,” Dean says, ripping the band aid. He should be feeling remorse, guilt. But he’s in pain, tired, hungover, and more than a little annoyed.

“Don’t even joke about it,” Mike says and takes his damaged hand, inspecting the damage with a concerned little frown. “You were in a fight.”

Dean snorts. “That’s right. Five points for Slytherin,” he says sarcastically and sits up with a grimace.

“What happened?” Mike repeats, still holding Dean’s hand in one of his, and reaches up to touch the scrapes on Dean’s forehead and cheekbone.

Dean blinks at Mike. He came out and told him first thing and Mike doesn’t believe him. He must fucking stink of sex. He sniffs himself to find that he reeks. Not so much of sex as he’d thought. More sweat, alcohol, and cigarettes even if there is a trace of Nick’s cologne and sex mixed in there. “I need a shower,” he says instead of answering the question. He fumbles for his phone and squints at it. Nothing. No answer to the last text he sent before he crashed. _Fucking asshole Nick!_

“We need to take care of your injuries. You might be concussed too. I’ll take you to the hospital―”

“No hospital!” Dean snaps angrily. “Last time I was in a hospital I woke up to blinding pain, was told I would never be able to use my leg again, my career was over, _and_ I found out my family had abandoned me. If I ain’t dyin, I ain’t going to no fucking hospital.”

“Alright, alright! Calm down. I’ll take care of you,” Mike hastens to reassure him.

* * *

Mike won’t leave him the fuck alone. He’s sitting in the bathtub, trying to forget all about yesterday. It’s not an easy feat. Not with bruises by his hip, a bite mark on a shoulder, and a leg that’s throbbing. Mike’s sitting by the tub, on the floor, fussing. He’s got the first aid kit out and is cleaning Dean’s busted knuckles with surprising tender efficiency. “Fuck sake, Mike,” Dean snaps, snatching his hand away. “This ain’t working.”

“I’m almost done, Dean.”

“I’ve got your travel plans, Mike. I know you’re fucking lying to me.”

Mike stills for a beat, cheeks colouring from the stress of being caught in a lie. Then he takes Dean’s hand back and continues cleaning the wounds, slowly, carefully. He swallows, body language tense.

“What else are you lying to me about? Can’t fucking trust you, Mike. This ain’t fucking _working_.”

“No. Dean. We’ll make it work. Please. I’m sorry I lied to you. That’s the only thing. I promise. I―“

“ _BULLSHIT!_ I ain’t stupid! Why can’t I meet your family? Huh? You fucking asshole jerkface! You’re fucking ashamed of me. Treating me like some fucking whore that would shit on the carpet. Making me beg for fucking scraps of time with you. We’ve been together for over two years, Mike. _Two years_! I _know_ your brothers have been here during that time. I _know_ you’ve been lying about your comings and goings. You don’t think that fucking hurts me?”

“I'm sorry, baby, I really am. I never wanted to hurt you. Things are complicated. I love you more than anything. I'm _not_ ashamed of you. You _have_ to believe me,” Mike pleads. 

“I don’t have to fucking anything. You don’t _own_ me.”

Mike’s eyes fill up with tears, lips wobbling. “Please don't leave me, Dean. _Please_. Don’t leave me. I can’t live without you. Please!”

Nick just left him. Fucked him and left. He seethes and wallows in the betrayal. Mike’s tears both grates on him and tugs at his heart and conscience. He’s cheated. He’s a cheater. For the first time in his life, he had sex with someone who wasn't his boyfriend while he wasn't single. Somehow, in the aftermath of what happened he'd thought things would change. That Nick would want to be with him. Not dump him like fucking trash, hoisting him off on his brother again.

_This is all I deserve._

“Shut up. You’re doing just fine without me when we’re apart.”

“I’m not. I’m really not, Dean.”

“I said _SHUT UP_!” Dean rise out of the large tub, furious now. He steps out of the tub, Mike scrambling to get to his feet. “I’m sick and tired of all your lies!”

“At least let me explai―“

“I don’t want to hear one more word outta you. You fucking piece of shit. I’ll teach you to listen!” Dean grabs a hold of Mike’s collar. Mike sees what’s coming, squeezes his eyes shut and braces for impact as Dean pulls his fist back to punch.

“ _NotthefaceFatherwillprosecute!_ ” 

The words rush out of Mike so fast Dean can barely make out what he’s saying. He stills his fist, pulled back and ready to punch. “Come again?”

Mike doesn’t open his eyes. “If I can’t hide the damage, Father will see and report it to the police. Assault goes under public indictment, and I can do nothing to stop an investigation.”

“So why don’t you lie and tell em you fell? Seeing as you’re so good at lying,” Dean sneers.

“If I do, Father will think it’s my brother and all hell will break loose. Please, just, not the face,” Mike babbles, still braced, still squeezing his eyes closed, still not lifting a fucking finger to protect himself.

Suddenly Dean is nauseous. He pushes Mike away, making him stagger. “Get out. Leave me alone and gimme some fucking space.”

For a moment, Mike looks like he wants to protest, then he backs towards the door. “If you need anything, just call for me, okay?” is the last thing he says before he slinks out of the door.

Dean goes back to the tub and sinks down in the water. He looks at his fist, all cleaned and patched up by Mike. Mike’s reaction to the threat of violence, makes him cringe inside. He’s just cheated on Mike, and Mike just stood there, ready to take the beating by the hand he’d just nursed. And what does he say? ‘Don’t leave marks where I can’t hide them.’ Protective loyalty or manipulation? But how the hell would he know it would stop Dean from hitting? He had no way of knowing that. Nick and Mike are both fucking shitheads. And he doesn’t deserve better. Fucking useless trash is what he is.

Once he’s done washing he wraps a towel around his hips and comes out to find that Mike has made him breakfast, as well as put forth painkillers (normal ones), his cigarettes, fresh squeezed juice, coffee, a tumbler and a bottle of whiskey, trying to sate both his needs and his wants. He sits on the sofa, following Dean with a nervous gaze, hands squeezed between his thighs.

Dean downs the painkillers, washing them down with the juice, pours himself some whiskey, then stuffs his face with the breakfast, standing by the counter, ignoring Mike. Once he’s eaten everything, he lights a cigarette, then brings the pack, the coffee and whiskey to the sofa to sit down beside Mike. “Thanks,” he offers.

“Don’t mention it,” Mike answers tensely.

Dean takes another cig out of the pack, lights it and hands it over. “Smoke it,” he commands.

Mike reaches out and takes it from his hand. He takes a drag on it without hesitation. He coughs once, but takes a new drag on the cig as soon as he’s exhaled. Dean sips his whiskey, studying him. Mike’s eyes wanders from his injuries on his face and fist, but ignores the bite mark as if it wasn’t there.

Mike’s engaged. He never wears the ring he must have, while he’s here. It doesn’t change a thing. It’s a giant wedge between them. Dean wishes Mike would have told him, back in the beginning, that a fucktoy was all he’d ever be. Then he could have broken off with Mike a long time ago. Long before he became so emotionally dependant of him. Before he fell in love and got his heart broken. Without Nick, he can’t walk away. Doesn’t want to. He’d rather take the pain. It’s not like he didn’t grow up loving people who didn’t love him back anyway. He thinks about going back to living the way he had before he met Mike, and almost shudders. He no longer functions alone. The nightmares and thoughts that hounds him without distractions, are wearing him down. 

He takes a sip of the whiskey, letting the burn warm him from within. Inhales deeply from the cigarette, watching Mike smoke. It’s kinda hot. He doesn’t have a smoking kink or anything, but he likes the idea of Michael doing something he never does, lessening his perfection in the eyes of the world. Bet the British cunt would hate it.

Mike ain’t no lion. But he’s a predator too. He’s the well trained hunting dog to Dean’s mangy scrapyard cur. He’s a fox, smooth and sly. His reaction to Dean’s threatened violence, makes Dean uncomfortable. “Your daddy usta beat ya?”

“He has a temper,” Mike concedes with a tone that tells Dean he prefers not to talk about it.

“Ever land ya in the hospital?” Dean probes and blows a smoke ring.

Mike shakes his head. “No.” But there’s something off with his tone when he says it, and a muscle twitches by his eye. He’s either lying or withholding something.  
Dean takes one last drag of his cigarette, deliberating. He squishes the butt into the ashtray on the sideboard. “So. We’re gonna fuck or not?”

Mike’s visibly taken aback. “Dean. We should talk―”

“Didn’t you hear? I’m fed up listening to your bullshit lies. You want this booty or dontcha?” 

Mike swallows. Fuck but his eyes look so fucking sad that Dean doesn’t know whether to squirm from bad conscience or fistpump in glee at hurting Mike back. Mike’s shoulders drop in defeat. “Yes,” he answers, voice subdued.

Dean tugs his towel off and glides down to the floor. “Keep smoking that cigarette,” he orders when Mike makes a move to put it out, then places himself between Mike’s legs, nuzzling his crotch. Fuck Mike. And fuck Nick too. Fuck fucking everyone. At least, he can have this. He knows how to do this.

* * *


	23. Stick Like A Burr

* * *

# Stick Like A Burr

2 years, 2 month (1 year, 5 months)

Nick hasn’t texted, hasn’t replied to any of Dean’s calls, hasn't shown up on the docks or in any of the bars they go to. Eli claims to not have seen Nick during the week Mike was home. Eli can't be trusted though, not on that note. Eli is far too loyal to all his customers and will lie on request, giving nothing away. Five days and Dean’s in knots. (Technically it's seven + five counting the week Mike was home.) Nick had been patiently waiting for him to stop ignoring him when Dean pulled this crap on _him_. But Dean’s not like that. By now he's angsting up to high heavens and can't fucking eat, breathe, or sleep. He keeps a flask of whiskey in his pocket when he's out, needing to sip at it to keep a calm(- _ish_ ) exterior. 

He _needs_ to find Nick and get this mess sorted out one way or another. Nick’s the only sound and solid thing he has since the army ditched him. He _needs_ Nick. 

So he takes a chance. Nick moves around a lot, but only when his economy makes him. He’s been staying at the decent motel Dean helped him move to and Dean hopes he's still there. If he isn't? Well in that case Dean will call every motel in the city until he's located him. If that doesn’t work he'll get a hold of Cas’ or Gabe’s phone numbers and check if they know where Nick is. 

He’s nervous when he knocks on the door. He’s got a cigarette pinched between his lips, smoking to calm himself down. He can hear someone shuffle inside and then the door opens. His heart leaps in his chest, full of relief to see Nick standing there. He’s dressed in sweatpants and a tee, has his glasses on. He looks pale and drawn, dirty hair and dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t shaved for long enough for his stubble to become a short beard. When he lays eyes on Dean he lights up… for a fraction of a moment. Then he shutters down. “Dean. What are you doing here?”

Anger swells in Dean’s chest. “You’re kidding, right?” he says in disbelief.

Nick looks away, not meeting his eyes. “Now’s not a good time…”

Dean snorts. “Yeah. Ain’t giving a shit about that, buddy.” He shoulders his way inside, jostling Nick out of the way. (He’s a bit apprehensive about finding someone inside with Nick, but the room’s empty.) It’s a mess inside (unlike last time Dean was here). Take away and pizza boxes, empty soda cans, all the ashtrays are full and the room reeks of smoke, showing that Nick’s been chain smoking. And it’s hot. The air conditioner isn’t working. A fan blows lazily back and forth, doing no difference whatsoever. The smell of sweat is so strong it should be disgusting but Dean inhales deeply, feeling the opposite. It smells of Nick. “You think you can just pull my own crap at _me_? You think I will just sit patiently waiting for you to come around or not? That ain’t me, pal. I ain’t buying it.” Dean spins around to look at Nick, frowning.

Nick closes the door, still not meeting Dean’s eyes. Drags his hand back and forth over his hair. “Look, Dean. We can talk about this some other time. I’m really tired and need to sleep.”

“You go ahead and sleep, sweetheart. I ain’t going anywhere. I’m gonna stick to you like a burr until you give up on this avoidance business.” He pulls a chair from the small table and puts it beside the queen sized bed where he can see the TV (currently showing the home shopping network) and sits down. “You wanna go ahead and pretend you never had your dick up my ass, _fine._ We can do that. You say nothing happened, then nothing happened. I ain’t gonna lose my best friend over it. Capisce?”

Now Nick’s finally looking at him, head tilted in something like bemused wonder. He crosses an arm over his chest, leans his other elbow on it and pulls at his lower lip.

The angry bluster Dean used to plow inside is fading, leaving only desperate determination. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and gives Nick his most earnest look. “Look, Nick. I need to lose you about as much as I need a bullet through my brain.” Nick gets a worried frown between his brows. Dean, determined to carry on, takes his flask from his pocket and takes a swig. Liquid courage. “I get it. You regret what we did. You don’t do your brother’s sloppy seconds. I know. You said. But w―”

Nick cuts him off. “ _Christ_! That’s not it! I said I don’t touch my brother’s stuff. I never mentioned sloppy seconds. I don’t believe a person’s value decreases because of who or how many they sleep with. Is that what you think?” he says with a look of consternation and runs a hand over his face.

That was exactly what Dean thought. Maybe he got hung up on the wrong thing because his own worries lay there? “ _Shit._ It’s because I lost my temper and almost got us arrested, right? You know they would have let you go when they figured out you weren’t actually involved.” Another thought hits him. “You don’t believe I would ever attack _you_ that way do ya? Cuz I’m tellin ya, Nick, I _do_ have an anger management problem but I would never hurt _you_. That’s why the wall got it,” he adds with a self-deprecating chuckle and holds up the now healed fist that he had rammed into the brick wall.

Nick’s looking at him with puzzled fascination, lips twitching in faint amusement. “Noo…” he says with an upward lilt that tells Dean he’s still way off. “I hadn’t even thought of that. I’m not afraid of you, Dean.” Yep. Now he’s fully shifted into amusement and it would both make Dean frustrated and annoyed except now Nick’s starting to relax, is fully focused on him, and most important of all― _not_ trying to get him to leave. Nick chuckles and walks over to the kitchenette. He grabs two Mountain Dew cans from the fridge, rummages in a drawer and withdraws a blister strip of painkillers. “I’ve got a couple of dodged assault charges of my own since my discharge. My temper isn’t exactly stable either,” he says, back turned. He pops two pills, dry swallows, then walks over to Dean and hands him a soda can and the blister strip. There’s only two pills left on it. One will chase away the pain, two will get him high. He does what Nick did and takes them both, chasing them down with the soda while Nick stands above him, watching him with that puzzled/amused fascinated expression that makes no sense to Dean.

In return Dean offers him his flask of whiskey with a raised eyebrow. 

Nick frowns, bites his lip, makes an aborted movement to take it. “Thanks, Dean. But I’ll pass for now. I haven’t had a drink since we….” he trails off and sits down on the bedside, opening his soda and taking a sip.

Dean’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline in surprise. “Really? Wow. That’s... that’s great. Must have been a bitch? Any time I’ve tried getting the monkey off my back I’ve got hit by the shakes badly.” He’s up and moving towards the kitchen sink without even thinking about it. There he empties the remaining whiskey into the drain.

“What are you doing?”

“Dumping this shit,” Dean answers. He washes the flask rudimentary with water and leaves it on the dish drainer. “If you’re on a drought I ain’t gonna make it harder on ya. You wanna drink again ‘s up to you. I won’t stop ya, but I won’t lure you down that road if you’re leavin it.”

Nick is looking at him with a strange expression when he comes back and sits down in the chair. Their knees are touching and even that small touch is calming. “Don’t be too impressed. I’ve been heavy on the pills so I haven’t exactly been sober,” Nick says.

“You’re telling me you haven’t felt any symptoms of withdrawal?” Nick drinks just as heavily as Dean and if Dean keeps sober a couple of days he sure as hell feels it.

Nick chuckles and sips his soda. “If I said I haven’t, I’d be lying and I promised I’d never do that to you.” He puts the can on the nightstand and lies down on the bed, pulling the blanket over himself. How the hell he can do that in this stifling heat is a mystery to Dean. He’s only been here for a few minutes and is already covered by a thin sheen of sweat, his clothes are starting to stick to his body. “And I wasn’t lying about needing sleep either… Feel free to change channel and turn up the volume on the TV. It won’t bother me.” Then he just closes his eyes.

Dean frowns at him in confusion. It’s like he just shut off. Dean pokes at him. “Nick? Hey, Nick?”

“Mmhm?”

“Is it because of Michael? Cuz if that’s it, I can call him and break up with him right now.” Nick cracks an eye open and side eyes him. Dean takes his phone from his pocket. “You want me to? I’ll do it. Want me to tell him why? Or want me to lie?”

Nick opens both his eyes and squints at him. “Don’t call. We can talk about this later. I’m so goddam tired, Dean. I need some time alone to think―”

Dean hides his disappointment and scowls at him in annoyance. “You’ve had _twelve fucking days_ to think by yourself. If it ain’t done you no good yet, it won’t. You’re stuck with me one way or another. I ain’t lettin go of ya just because you’ve had some freak out. The sooner you get that into that dumb skull of yours, the sooner we can get past this.”

He knew his worth now. He’d thought he meant more to Nick. He didn’t. Everybody just abandoned him. Dropped him with dazzling ease and went on with their lives while he was left floundering. He’s sick and tired of it. He may be trash, but he needs Nick and he’s gonna be selfishly clinging on, disallowing Nick to throw him out like the wasted piece of good for nothing garbage he is. He’s gonna prove to Nick that he has _some_ worth. He’ll make himself indisposable somehow. It hurts that Nick doesn’t want him. Hurts like a bitch. As far as Dean knows Nick has held true to what he once said ‘I may withhold a shitton of stuff from you but I will never lie to you.’ If that’s all he can get then he’ll take it. It’s better than to be Michael’s constantly lied to goldfish fucktoy. He’d rather be Nick’s fucktoy―except Nick doesn’t want to fuck him anymore―so he’d be just a toy. A tool. Anything it took to keep him.

Nick blinks at him. Then he snorts and actually fucking smiles before closing his eyes again. “Fair enough.”

The conversation comes to an end there. Dean’s staring at the TV, sipping his soda and Nick drifts slowly into sleep. It takes a while before Nick’s breath evens out to heavy not quite snores. Dean is lost in thoughts. At first all he thinks about is how useless he is. How he doesn’t deserve better than what he’s getting. How dumb he is for putting up with Mike and then go chasing after Nick. Nick doesn’t want a relationship. He knew that, didn’t he? He was stupid to think differently. Nick is a fuck ‘em and ditch ‘em fast kind of guy. As soon as he fucked Dean, Dean was reduced to “one of them”―the many, _many_ women he’d seen Nick pull over the years. Nick doesn’t _do_ da capos. But slowly his thoughts turns more positive and it doesn’t seem that bad. _It’s… it’s kinda funny actually_ , he thinks drowsily and chuckles.

It’s only when he hears himself chuckle that he realises his leg isn’t bothering him anymore and the painkillers have hit, making him high. It’s a detached feeling and it feels fucking great. Apart from the night they fucked he’s never taken more than it took to chase away the pain―Nick’s never _given_ him more before.

He sits for a while just trying to catalogue how he feels. He knows he’s fucked up, but that’s okay. He doesn’t care, and he doesn’t care that he doesn’t care. The pills brought him to the state of zero-fucks-given he always try to fake. He is drowsy and oddly focused at the same time, but it’s like he can only focus on one thing at the time.

He turns his head and looks at Nick. He’s still wearing his fucking glasses. You shouldn’t sleep with glasses no matter how sexy you look in them. Thought directly translates into action and he reaches out and carefully removes the glasses without waking Nick. He wonders if he looks as good in them as Nick does, puts them on and giggles at the sight-distortion (like instantly getting drunk). He takes a selfie, finds that _nope_ , he doesn’t, but keeps the photo and puts the glasses on the nightstand.

He stares at Nick. He looks like a wreck of his usual self and yet Dean’s overwhelmed with a sense of affection and a fucking longing to crawl onto the bed and just hold him. That would be interpreting “stick like a burr” a bit too literal and may have the opposite effect of what he wants, so he looks around to find something to distract himself with. It’s like a fucking sauna in here and he wonders how Nick hasn’t died from heat exhaustion. The thought makes him worry which finds him the distraction he needs.

* * *

“Dean? Are you really here?” The voice is distant but then there’s a hand on his shoulder and he jerks into full wakefulness and blinks confusedly, trying to get his bearings. Nick’s face is hovering over his, a look of wonder in his eyes. It’s Nick’s hand on his shoulder. Right. He fell asleep on the chair beside Nick’s bed, his legs propped up on the only other chair in the room. 

“No, you’re just imagining me,” Dean answers sarcastically to the question he heard fading from sleep. The look of sheer horror on Nick’s face makes him snort a chuckle. “ _Dude_ , I told you I was gonna stick around. You think I’m full of shit?”

Nick whacks him on the shoulder and sits down on the bed beside him, scowling. “It’s not funny, Dean. When you came, I wasn’t sure if you were real or if I finally had gone into the deep end and started hallucinating for real. Sleep deprivation, stop drinking cold turkey, and popping pills like candy can do that to a guy, you know? Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Dean rubs his shoulder and grins. “Aww. And you thought your mind would choose me for its delusions?” he teases and bats his eyelashes.

“Who else?” Nick reaches out and touches Dean again―shoulder, chest, face, thigh―as if to assure himself Dean’s real, bemused smile finding itself onto his lips and scowl melting away. “I can’t find my glasses.”

Dean turns around, reaches for the glasses on the nightstand and hands them to Nick. “You’re really blind, huh?”

“Yeah. I’ve always had a slight sight problem but the grenade fucked it up to high heavens,” he says and puts the glasses on. He looks around the room in bewilderment. “Did you do this?”

“No. It was the goddam toothfairy,” Dean says dryly. “Get your head in the game, Nick. Who else coulda dunnit?”

Dean had set out to fix the air conditioner to distract himself from cuddling with Nick. He was good with electronics of all kinds, always had been. Only, he needed tools. So he’d rummaged around amongst Nick’s stuff, only it was such a mess that he’d started cleaning up instead. One thing led to another in the drug induced single minded focus he was in and so the room ended up spotless, the dirty laundry cleaned and folded. He had to leave the room (stealing Nick’s room and bike keys in case he woke up and tried to make a run for it) to get tools, so he talked to the motel manager. That led to him fixing not only Nick’s AC but the one in the lobby and three other rooms as well, in exchange for a heavy discount on Nick’s room fee. When he got back he went to grab another soda just to discover that Nick had absolutely no food and only a couple of Mountain Dews in his fridge and cupboards so he ventured out again. Once the kitchen was fully stocked he finally felt how fucking tired he was and fell asleep on the chair next to the bed. Looking at it now it may seem a bit overkill (psycho obsessive) but since he was high at the time (still is, but a bit faded) it seemed like the logic thing to do if he was going to make himself indispensable to Nick.

Nick scrunches his face up and looks back at him. “But… _why_?”

“It was messy.” Any other answer would involve telling Nick how he actually feels so he feigns nonchalance. 

“Huh.” Nick raises his eyebrows and mulls it over, then makes a sturgeon face. “Fair enough.” He gets up and goes to the kitchen, taking a new package of pills from the drawer and pops two. “You want?” he asks. Dean holds out his hand in answer. “One or two?”

“As many as you took.”

Something intense flares in Nick’s eyes, nostrils flaring for a moment before he tampers it down. Dean can’t interpret it. Nevertheless he gives Dean two pills and puts the pack away. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“You do that.”

When Nick leaves the room Dean goes to the kitchen and starts making dinner. He’s hardly eaten or slept since Nick went AWOL on him and despite the situation he’s calmed. It doesn’t feel like Nick’s going to try to ditch him again. With that hunger returns with a vengeance.

When Nick comes back (fully clothed) Dean’s turned on the transistor radio and is loudly singing along with Hunter Hayes ‘I Want Crazy’ while chopping onions and swaying his hips along with the music. He vaguely notes that Nick changes the sheets and throws the dirty ones in the wash, as he puts the onions in the frying pan with the minced meat. Nick comes to stand by the corner of the kitchenette, smoking a cigarette and studying him.

“Look at you, all spit shined and shaved,” Dean coos and throws him a wink. A bit disappointed that he’s exchanged his glasses for contacts. But it’s for the best. “Looking much better, Nick,”

Nick smirks. “Yeah well, I know a kick in the ass when I get one. I count myself lucky you didn’t stand above me with a megaphone yellin ‘Get your shit together’ when I slept.”

“That was plan B,” Dean jokes and transfers the fried meat and onions to a pot, adding canned crushed and pureed tomatoes, water and spices, then stirs and puts on a lid.

Nick snorts in amusement and follows Dean’s proceedings with interest. “So you cook too. Just when I think you can’t get any more perfect… what are we havin?”

“Just pasta and sauce. Don’t get yer expectations up. I’m not that good.”

Nick takes a deep drag on his cigarette without taking his eyes off Dean. His gaze is sharp, calculating. Dean, set on his task, pulls bell peppers and mushrooms from the fridge, washes the cutting board and knife and starts chopping. Normally he probably would have gotten nervous from the scrutiny because Nick’s face gives nothing away, but he isn’t unsettled now that he’s high. He’s surprised at how clear his thoughts are despite it all and wonders if Nick ever went to work with him like this without him knowing. Looking at Nick he doesn’t look drugged. Tired―yes. Drugged―no. 

Nick lets out the smoke slowly, sifting it downward. “Oy, Nicky. Care to gimme a hit on that?” Dean asks and looks at the cigarette. There’s no point on lighting his own while cooking. Ashes would just get in the food. Nick pushes himself off the corner he’d been leaning on and saunters up to Dean, takes the cig from his mouth and holds it out for Dean to take. Dean doesn’t. Instead he bends down and puts his lips around it without letting go of the pepper and knife, letting Nick hold it while he takes a drag. Nick’s lips twitch like it somehow pleases him. When Dean straightens up again he leans his back against the refrigerator, still looking at Dean with that calculating expression.

“You cook for Mikey often?” he asks curiously.

“Nope,” Dean answers, popping the P. “Only dunnit once.” He puts some margarine in the fryingpan and waits for it to brown.

A flash of surprise crosses Nick’s face. “How so? He didn’t like it?”

Pride. Who needs it? He’s been keeping quiet about this because it hurt and he didn’t want to admit how he let Mike treat him. But what does it matter when Nick apparently could discard him as trash just as easily. “We’ll never know. For our first year anniversary Mike had to pop into the office for a couple of hours and I decided to surprise him with a fancy ass homemade dinner when he got home,” Dean says, putting the bell pepper in the fryingpan and salting them. The detached feeling makes it easy to talk about it. “Only, he didn’t show up back at home until fucking midnight. By then I’d already eaten and gotten rid of the evidence of my work. I’ve never bothered to try again.”

Nick’s nostrils flare, his expression one of badly hidden _spiteful_ satisfaction, dark gleam in his eyes. It’s a look that Dean normally would find all kinds of hot. Not now though.

Dean scowls at him. “You happy about me gettin blown off like that? Fuck you, Nick.”

“Christ! No.” Nick slaps a hand over his face. “I’m not happy about that at all.” He removes his hand and looks at Dean with contrite vexation. “You just told me that I did better than Mikey, just by stealing some canapes, and I’m happy about _that._ Plus I’m going to get to taste your cooking before he does. I’m sorry. My feelings towards my brother are complicated and not exactly charitable most of the time, as you know. Hearing this… makes me feel like throwing my head back and laugh in malicious pleasure at Mikey’s shortcomings.”

_Oh._

Well that’s a whole other ball game than taking satisfaction from Dean’s suffering. The scowl melts off of Dean’s face. If anyone can relate to that feeling, it’s him. He transfers the fried peppers into the pot, puts more margarine in the pan and waits for it to brown while Nick takes a last drag of the cigarette and leaves the kitchenette to put it out in an ashtray. Dean puts the mushrooms in the pan and Nick comes back to lean against the fridge. He keeps watching Dean while he fries the mushrooms, transfer them to the sauce, washes the frying pan and boils a pot of water for the pasta.

“Did you break up?”

“Nope,” Dean says popping the P. “Why should we? You ditched me outside his door like you’d just borrowed his car without asking and returned it with a coupla dents.” He knows he feels bitter about it, but right now he’s too distanced from that feeling to care. Blessed be the painkillers, for they shall take away thy pain. Indeed. In every sense of the word. It’s still there, he knows what upsets him, he just doesn’t feel attached to the hurt at the moment.

“It’s not like that.”

Dean snorts. Sure it is.

“Besides, you’re one man’s man. You always said so,” Nick adds.

Well that hasn’t been true for a long time, has it? Funny that it’s someone whose first name is Lucifer who led him astray. Dean chuckles and shakes his head. He stirs the sauce, tastes it and adds more spices. Pasta goes into the boiling water in the other pot. Nick’s quiet, waiting for him to say something. Dean tastes the sauce again, spoons up some more and turns to Nick, one hand cupped underneath the spoon in case it drips. “Here. Have a taste.”

Nick appears troubled by Dean’s change of subject but nevertheless leans in and lets Dean feed him the sample. Once again there’s this resounding ‘YES’ somewhere inside of Dean. He’s getting flashbacks of moments with Benny when they were on leave. Back in Benny’s kitchen where Benny tried to teach him how to cook (no matter how hard he tried Dean couldn’t get the food to taste even half as good as Benny’s. He simply wasn’t good at it) while telling him about his dream of opening a restaurant once he retired from the army. Dean’s missed this. Little domestic moments of twosomeness he didn’t get with Mike because their interaction were always so vacation-like, and not with Nick because Nick had refused to live with him.

Nick’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he makes a little “Mmmm” noise. “I thought you said you weren’t good at cooking? This is delicious,” he says.

“I'm not.”

“Yeah you are. Gimme another taste.”

“No. Go set the table, asshole,” Dean says and smacks Nick’s hand when he reaches for the spoon. 

Nick grumbles but obeys. 

A while later they’re eating in silence. Well. Silence except Nick’s moans of pleasure with each and every bite. It makes Dean’s inside purr contentedly. If this is the way to make himself indispensable he’ll be pulling every cooking trick in his book for Nick. Once Nick’s finished he sits slouched, turning his fork over and over at the table, looking at Dean, then at the fork, then at Dean, then at the fork again. The air starts to get tense.

“What?” Dean asks after a while.

“Nothing. Nothing, just… have you had sex with Mikey since..?” Nick asks without looking at Dean. The fork is continually flipped over. 

“Yeah. So?”

Nick hums, picks up the fork and counts it's points. “You don’t feel bad about what we did? Regret it?”

Dean scowls and drops his utensils, pushing his plate away. His temper flares out of nowhere. “Of course I regret it! What with you ditching me like trash afterwards. Do I feel guilty about it? _Like hell I do._ Mike went and got _engaged_ behind my back. Anything he gets from here on he’s got coming. You know what I was thinking of when he was fucking me? Do you?”

Nick’s staring wide eyed at him. He shakes his head. 

“I was thinking of you. Of your hands on my body, your dick in my ass and your mouth all-fucking-over me. I was imagining Mike watching us. I wanted him to feel it. Like a knife to the heart for everything he’s done to me. To _us_. He’s screwed us over royally, not a care in the world for _our_ feelings. The sweet taste of revenge as well as the sweet, _sweet_ taste of you fucking breeding me like you fucking _owned_ me, like he thinks he does. Hell, _you_ thinks he owns me too! You know he freaks out if I as much as talk to you? You know that right? I'm so fucking hurt and angry at both of y’all. I ain’t gonna let you treat me like that. You and me? We don't go by the same rules. You’re not _allowed_ to go AWOL on me. I do that from time to time. It’s a thing I do and you can just suck it up. But if you try to ditch me again I swear to god I'll find you and gut you like a fish. If I lose you I'm one step away from going the Charles Whitman route and climb a fucking clock tower. Is that fucking clear?” Dean distantly wonders where the rage came from. He can feel how his face has heated up from the sudden anger and the faint pounding in his ears warns him he's a hair's breath from losing it.

Nick’s been staring at him intensely, face unreadable. The fucker hides his emotions well when he wants to. Now he turns his head away. “I don’t know, Dean. I―”

Dean slams his fist on the table so hard the plates and utensils jumps and Nick jerks, flipping the fork in his hand so it’s shaft is poised for stabbing. Dean stands up so fast his chair tips over backward. “ _No_! There’s gonna be no ‘I don’t knows’. We’re partners. You’ve said so yourself on so many occasions. You always introduce me and such, so now it’s your turn to fucking act like it. You don’t abandon your partner. It’s us against the world now, Nick. Come rain or shine, you’re fucking stuck with me!” Dean’s leaning over the table, stabbing a finger at Nick to accentuate the points he’s making. His jaw clenches when he falls quiet.

Nick puts the fork down on the table slowly, carefully, (wisely). “Fair enough.”

“What? Just like that?”

“Yes. If anyone’s going to climb a clock tower, we’ll climb it together.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Dean is on his way to sit down when he remembers he knocked the chair over. He turns around and picks it up. The anger is abating as quickly as it came and now he’s feeling a bit nauseous and dizzy. He sits down.

“You going to break up with Mikey?”

“What?” Nick’s voice seems to come from far away. Dean has problem making sense of the question. He feels weak, overheated, cold and clammy. “Do you want me to?” he answers.

“No. Hey, Dean. Are you alright? Dean? _Dean_?”

Everything goes black.

* * *

When he comes to he’s placed in left lateral recumbent position on the bed under the blanket. Nick’s curled up spooning him and he feels like he's hungover. “Nick?”

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” Nick says and pushes himself up on an elbow so he can see Dean’s face. “How are you feeling?”

Dean turns his head to blink at Nick. “Hungover. What happened?”

“You passed out.”

“Yeah. I get that. But why?”

“Don’t know. I think it was a combo of the chemical concoction of painkillers, adrenaline, mixed with emotional overload.”

“ _Emotional overload_? Christ. What am I? A girl?”

Nick smiles. “Enough stress fucks up anyone.”

Dean groans. “Thanks for not taking me to the hospital.”

“You came to enough to mumble ‘no hospitals’ when I carried you to the bed.”

Dean snorts in amusement. “‘Course I did.” Sounds like him.

* * *


	24. Withdrawal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Earning the non-con tag in this chapter.
> 
> Of all the fics I've read, I've never come across the most common form of rape. The kind that happens within a relationship, where both partners love each other. Where we don't fight it, and forgive afterwards, because we're loyal. We usually paint a rapist as some strange monster with no good sides, that can't be loved or love. I felt I needed to write it, address it. :P Not just pretend it never happens. There'll be no rape-aftermath talks, or discussion around the violation that takes place, between the characters.
> 
> A couple of chapters ahead, are fairly dark. Dean's not in a good headspace, self-esteem at an all time low. It'll get better. I promise.

* * *

# Withdrawal

2 years, 2 month (1 year, 5 months)

The next morning they head out to the docks together and everything goes back to normal except there’s no beers afterwards. Dean spends the night at home alone after some coaxing from Nick. Nick shows up at the docks seven sharp at the docks as promised. They loiter in the park after work.

Another night home alone, and Nick still shows up like he said he would. Dean has a hard time staying focused, he's barely slept at all and is waspish and ill tempered. He pins it down to insomnia. Nick casts him worried glances ever so often and Dean tells him to go fuck himself. His hands shake when he tries lighting a cigarette. Nick comes up to him and lights his cigarette for him. “You’ve got the shakes badly. Maybe we should go grab a beer after work?”

“Hey. I don’t wanna fuck things up for you. As long as you’re sober, I ain’t gonna drink, okay?” Dean says and takes a deep drag on his cig, blowing the smoke out sharply downward, then inhaling more smoke. Of course. It isn’t insomnia. It’s fucking withdrawals. He wonders if that played a part in him fainting like a fucking maid the other day. 

Nick hums and lights a cigarette of his own. “Sobriety ain’t all what it promised to be. I just figured I should stop drinking because what happened last time I drank.”

Anger flares hot in Dean’s belly. He scowls. “Oh yeah? What happened last time that was so fucking bad that you never want to drink again?” he spits out. They fucked, that was what happened. It had been fucking glorious and Nick. _Didn’t. Fucking. Want. Him._ There is no filter between impulse and action, and without thinking of what he’s doing Dean has slammed a fist in Nick’s shoulder hard enough for him to stagger backward with a pained yelp. “Fucking asshole,” Dean says, pinches his cigarette in his mouth and stomps away to keep toting crates into the back of the truck. Nick doesn’t follow. He should have, had he known Dean better. Withdrawal with anger and hurt added to the mix is not a recipe for sound thinking. 

_It was such bad experience he’s afraid to ever drink again, huh? He doesn’t want me. Fucking jerkface. He doesn’t think something like that could happen while we’re sober? I’ll fucking show him! Yeah. That’s what I’m gonna do. Fucking fuckwad._

Set upon revenge he takes his chance when Nick jumps into the back of the truck carrying a crate. He follows empty handed. Nick puts the crate down by the back wall and turns around just in time to get a forceful shove in the chest and slam against the wall. “Don’t want me near the family jewels, Nicky? Is that it? Was it really that bad? And you just had to go discard me like trash afterwards. Fucking dick,” he spits, face twisted in a bitter grimace and steps closer, putting his forearm against Nick’s chest to keep him pinned to the wall.

Nick has a the-fuck-are-you-doing?-expression, brows drawn down and eyes wide and disbelieving. “That’s not it. Dean, what’s up with you? Cut it out.”

Dean isn’t listening. He yanks the button of Nick’s pants open and pulls down the fly, batting Nick’s hands away when they try to stop him.

“Dean? Dean! Stop it. What are you doing?”

Dean pushes his hand inside Nick’s underwear, grabs his limp dick and pulls it out. “Shut up,” he growls. Nick’s not really fighting him, like he could have. But there’s a hint of panicked strain around his eyes. Dean fondles his dick, feeling it respond to the touch.

“Dean! Don’t. Stop. No, Dean. don’t do this!” Nick tries to shove him away, but he lets go of Nick’s dick and catches Nick’s wrists, pressing them to the wall.

He kicks Nick’s feet further apart. “I said, _shut up_!” Then he drops to his knees, Nick’s hands still firmly pressed to the wall with vice grips. Without further ado he sucks Nick’s dick into his mouth and starts working at it with tongue and suction. It had already started to fill in his hand and now it’s getting hard real fast.

The back of Nick’s head slams against the wall. “Fuckfuckfuck! Dean! Whatta fuck, Dean? What are you― _Oh, fuck_!” He tries to squirm away, but his resistance is halfhearted at best. As soon as he’s fully hard in Dean’s mouth his physical resistance dies completely, and only words of denial spill from his lips. “Don’t do this, Dean. We shouldn’t―goddamhellshitfuck―Mikey… Dammit, Dean! Fuck you. You shouldn’t―Holy shit! Fuck! Stop it! Dean! _Fuuuu―_ ”

But now Dean’s really getting into it. Nick’s fucking perfect. He tastes so good, and the musky scent of him fills Dean’s nostrils. Dean bobs his head up and down, moans around the cock, and works his tongue around the underside of it. He lets go of Nick’s wrists and grabs a hold of his hips instead, guiding it into a thrusting motion, fucking his own mouth so the cock slams into the back wall of his mouth with every thrust. Nick’s protests die down and he looks down at Dean, eyes glazed, pained and disbelieving. Dean angles his head and swallows him down all the way, burying his nose in the dark-blond curls of Nick’s pubic hair. He holds himself there, and swallows repeatedly, until lack of air, and throat-abuse makes him gag and tear up. He pops off coughing wetly, a thick string of saliva hanging between his mouth and the cock. He gulps down air in his lungs and dive back in, repeating the process. Saliva runs down his chin, tears from the gagging trickles freely down his cheeks. 

When he looks up from under wet lashes and meets Nick’s gaze, it’s no longer disbelieving, but feverish and aggressive. Dean moans.

“Fuck, Dean! Stupid, fucking, jackass!” Nick buries his hands in Dean’s hair, twisting til it hurts. “Fucking take it,” he says and starts fucking Dean’s mouth on his own behalf. “Fucking choke on it!” Now all Dean can do is put his hands on the wall to steady himself, and let Nick hold the reins. This is perfect. Better than he’d fantasised about. All he ever wanted out of life, he’s sure. His own cock is so hard it hurts, zipper digging in painfully where it’s straining against it. But he isn’t interested in his own release. Nick holds him down so long he almost panics before yanking him off to sputter for air. Then tugs him back down onto the cock again. “I fucking _hate_ Mikey. I hate him, hate him, hate him! Suck it, come on, Dean. Take it. Take all of it. Show me what you can do, you fucking cocktease!”

When Nick comes he holds Dean’s head steady, forcing him to swallow. Dean fucking loves it. Once again, it’s the lions mating thing. Once Nick’s come, his knees buckle and he slides down to a sitting position. He pulls Dean in by the hair and forces his tongue into Dean’s mouth roughly, licking in as far as he can go, as if he’s trying to get the sperm out, heedless of the saliva on Dean’s chin. It’s such a dominant gesture, Dean keens into his mouth, sucking at his tongue, opening willingly. The aggression Dean had felt is gone, now he’s just pliant and obedient. Any order Nick would have given, Dean would have compiled to. Even if it was ‘lick my boots’ or something equally degrading.

Then he lets go of Dean’s hair, kisses him more gently, sweetly almost, before his head falls back against the wall and his eyes close. His arms are loosely draped around Dean’s back. They're both panting harshly in the aftermath. Dean tucks Nick’s dick back in his pants and curls up against his chest. “This can’t happen again,” Nick says, sounding wrecked.

“Whatever, man,” Dean grouses, listening to the still frantic beat of Nick’s heart. He ain’t making any promises. If he would, the anger would come welling back in a heartbeat, and right now life’s real fucking good. 

After a moment Nick digs up his cigarettes out of his pocket with one hand, the other arm still draped around Dean. He taps out one cig against his knee, puts it in his mouth, drops his pack on the floor, digs up his lighter and lights it, then puts the lighter on top of his cigarette pack. He inhales deeply, curls his hand in Dean’s long hair and bends his head gently backward (something Dean really wants to get used to. It might be the best feeling in the world!). He covers Dean’s mouth with his own and shotguns the smoke into Dean’s mouth, Dean inhaling obligingly. (Correction. _This_ may be the best feeling in the world.) “You do this with Mikey often?” Nick asks when he withdraws his head, voice carefully neutral.

“What? Shotgun?”

“No, jackass. Gag and choke yourself on his dick,” Nick says, face scrunching up in an impatient, annoyed expression.

Dean chuckles and tilts his head down, looking at the sliver of skin visible between Nick’s tee and his still unbuttoned pants. He can see scar tissue on one side and reaches out to run a thumb over it. Nick smacks his fingers with a reproachful slap and tugs his T-shirt down, hiding his skin. “No. Your brother’s a bit squeamish. If I take him so deep that I gag or choke he’s put off. I wouldn’t call him a careful, or gentle lover. He can bend me in half with the best of ‘em. But he’s, I dunno. Cleanish? In the way he fucks. I ain’t got a better word for it.” Dean looks up to find Nick looking down on him with an unreadable expression.

“So he doesn’t get to fuck your face til you’re a crying mess, gasping for air, like I just did?” Nick insists.

“No.”

Nick looks fiercely pleased, aggressively possessive. He makes a low sound of approval in the back of his throat that sets butterflies aflutter in Dean’s belly. Nick may not want him, but it’s clear he wants what Mike has, and can't have. Dean thinks he’ll use that, if that means he can coax Nick to do what they just did again. Nick takes another deep drag on the cigarette and bends his head. Dean’s comes up to meet him, to inhale the smoke through Nick’s mouth. They shotgun the rest of a cigarette without talking, then get back to work. As usual, Nick acts as if nothing happened.

* * *


	25. Derailing

* * *

# Derailing

2 years, 2 month (1 year, 5 months)

After work Nick drives them to Eli’s and parks his bike. “Come on, we’re getting drunk,” he says and smacks Dean on the arm encouragingly, bouncing a little on his feet.

“Dude. I told you, I don’t wanna fuck shit up for you.”

Nick chuckles and pulls Dean in by his shirt collar. His eyes sparkles with mischief. “You don’t wanna drink, fine by me. But I’d rather be a happy drunk alcoholic than a miserable sober one.” He pat-slaps Dean’s cheek, winks and turns to stalk towards the bar.

And fuck it. Dean’s withdrawal symptoms are bad. Temper flares, no impulse control, insomnia, tremors, difficulties concentrating, weird thoughts, and some sight distortion. So yeah. Getting drunk sounds awesome. He follows Nick inside. 

“Hey, Eli! Pour the shots. We’re getting hammered,” Nick calls in lieu of a greeting. 

“Nick and Dean. The lost sons have returned,” Eli calls back with a big welcoming smile. 

This feels right. Especially when Nick throws an arm around Dean’s shoulders once they're by the bar disk. “Yeah, well, you know me. I miss your ugly mug and there’s only so long I can be without the company of this loser before I forget how to function,” Nick jokes.

“I call bullshit. You don't know how to function either way,” Eli shoots back and pours them a row of shots. 

And with that life's pretty good again. And with booze it gets steadily better. They go barhopping, and at the fourth bar Dean almost doesn't care that Nick doesn’t want him. Nick’s busy flirting with some chick and when Dean catches the eye of a pretty little twink, he goes for it. Michael’s _engaged_. Dean’s just his whore. Which equals him being single, since Nick doesn’t want him anyway. The thought of cheating on Mike looks more appealing by the second. 

The twink, a blonde young man―barely legal by the looks of it―keeps making doe eyes at him across the bar. He’s dressed in black skinny jeans and a red tee with a band logo on it. Not Dean’s favourite kind of outfit, but hey. It’s not the wrapping he wants to fuck. 

Dean sidles up to the twink and gives him a lopsided smile paired with a _how-you-doin’_ nod when their eyes meet. “Hey, handsome. How's it hanging?”

“Better, now that you’re here, daddy,” the blond guy counters with a seductive smirk, turning his back to the bar disk and hanging off it on his elbows, legs splayed invitingly.

_Woah. Daddy, huh?_

Okay, so that’s not really Dean’s thing. But then again, he’s not one to kink-shame. Whatever floats your boat, right? And the guy doesn’t even require being chatted up by the looks of it. So if it means he’s getting laid, he can be a daddy for the night. “How old are you, boy?” Dean says and reaches out to brush the guy’s lower lip with his thumb.

“Twenty one.”

“It says so on your ID?”

“Mhmm…” the guy says, and boldly sucks in Dean’s thumb in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it.

And Dean’s so on board with that.

Furthermore, Dean’s cock is rapidly waking up and paying attention. He steps in between the blond guy’s legs, slides a hand up his hip and in under the shirt. “You got a name, kid?”

“Noah,” the twink says, letting Dean smear saliva on his lower lip with the thumb he just sucked.

“You wanna be a good boy for daddy, Noah?” Dean asks and runs his hand on the soft unblemished skin of Noah’s stomach. He sees it in the young man’s eyes that, yes, he wants that indeed. Instead of waiting for an answer he leans in and whispers in Noah’s ear, grazing the shell with his lips. “You wanna suck daddy’s cock? Be a good boy, and let daddy bend you in half, fuck you senseless?” He feels the guy shiver and hears his breath hitch. The guy is a gazelle in the jaws of Dean’s lion.

“Yes, daddy. Please,” Noah breathes. Dean feels an ugly disdain for the guy, a feeling foreign to him when it comes to sexual partners. He kisses the guy. The guy tastes like prey. A too easy target, blind to all the aggression, self-loathing, and hate for the world that’s simmering under the surface of Dean’s pretty face. Noah’s no lion like Nick, he’s not even a predator like Michael. He’s a rabbit sitting still, waiting to be torn to shreds by either fox _or_ hound. And he doesn’t even know it.

Dean kisses his way down his neck and throws a look across the bar where Nick’s been macking on some woman, just to find Nick watching him intently with an unreadable expression. “Meet me outside, we’ll go somewhere,” he tells Noah and extracts himself. As soon as Noah’s gone towards the exit, Dean makes his way to Nick, taking his dog tags off as he goes. Something inside of him protests, screaming that he just made himself totally naked. Which is the point. 

“Dean. The hell are you doing?”

“What’s it look like? I'm getting laid tonight, Nick.”

“What about Mikey?”

“He's probably getting laid tonight too.” Nick looks pissed, so Dean goes on. “Face it, Nick. He’s fucking _engaged_. Somewhere out there, there's a fucking cunt with _my_ ring on her finger. I'm nothing but Mike's _whore_. He ain’t here, and you've made it clear, repeatedly, that you don't wanna fuck me. So fuck him, and fuck you. I don't owe any of you anything you don't wanna give back. He doesn’t want to give me fidelity, and you don't want my body. That makes me single as fuck when he’s outta town.” 

There it is again. The ugly black thing in his veins, that makes him feel like he wants to set the world on fire and watch it burn. The anger at everyone, for treating him like the piece of trash he is. It’s not fucking fair. Nick looks pissed and something else that Dean can’t interpret. He wishes Nick was as eager to be with him as Noah is. Dean would gladly call _him_ daddy, Sir, miss, or anything else Nick wants, if he'd just wanted it. 

Nick’s jaws clenches. “You’re not a whore, Dean.”

“Sure I am. Here. Keep these safe for me,” he says and hangs his dog tags around Nick's neck. For some reason the gesture makes his heart flutter. 

“Why?”

“Because there’s no one else I'd trust with em, and they got my name on em.” He intended to pat-slap Nick’s cheek before walking away, instead he ends up stroking it. Then he hurries towards the exit. 

Instead of taking Noah home, he takes him to a shady motel that takes cash and lets you rent by the hour. He pays for the whole night, calling himself Sam, not wanting use his own name. 

He and Noah stumble inside the room kissing. He compares every touch and taste with Michael and Nick. Noah doesn’t measure up, but every new person come with their own thrills. “Hey, you wanna bump some snow?” Noah asks. 

Dean honestly, has no idea what he’s talking about, but he’s drunk and suggestible. “Sure.”

The twink extracts himself and digs out a small bag of coke from his pocket. Dean is immediately intrigued. He’s never snorted coke before―the idea wouldn't even have crossed his mind during his army days. Or the time directly after his discharge. But everything has changed. Michael’s engaged and Nick doesn’t want him. He’s nothing to no one. Nothing to lose, everything to gain. 

So it's with a mix of trepidation and anticipation he takes the rolled up dollar bill from Noah after the kid has set two lines up and snorted one. “You really are a good boy for daddy, huh?” he jokes. 

The guy laughs. “Yeah. Except for my real dad. Apparently, fucking guys isn’t the ‘Christian thing to do’,” he says, somewhere between amused and bitter. Whatever. Dean doesn’t give a shit about Noah’s daddy issues.

Dean holds the rolled up bill to his nose, covers his other nostril, and snorts the drug like he’d seen on TV (and like Noah just did). He expects it to burn, or sting. It doesn’t. Not really. It more like numbs, and opens up his sinuses. At first he doesn’t really feel anything special. But after a few minutes he realises that he does indeed feel something―it's just a lot more subtle than he'd expected. He is more confident, positive, and _everything_ Noah says is interesting. Everything he himself says even more so. The lies keep rolling off his tongue. His name is Sam, he’s married, working construction, and lives in Iowa. He’s just here on ‘vay-cay’.

Coming is next to impossible with cocaine in the system. It makes him just numb enough not to be able to top that crest. Especially since they do three more lines during the night. And seems like coke sobers you up. Not that it matters. Noah is still prey, caught in the claws of a predator, but _willing_ prey, set on self-destruction. Too bad Dean’s set on destruction too.

* * *

Nick’s a pissy little bitch the next day. There’s no work to be had at the docks so they end up loitering in the park. “Where were you last night? You didn’t take him to Mikey’s,” Nick asks as they light a cigarette each and watch a mother trying to herd four kids past them.

“Red Moon motel. I ain’t gonna take some trashy little slut to a penthouse.” Dean’s dog tags are back around his neck where they belong. It feels good. The naked feeling went away as soon as Nick hung them there. It also made Dean’s heart flutter when he did. Why, he can't say. It was his own fucking dog tags for fuck sake.

Nick shifts on his feet, lips compressed to a thin line, and blows smoke out through his nose. He looks down on the ground. “Do you need an alibi?”

“What?”

Nick rolls his eyes impatiently and gives him a glare, taking another short drag on the cigarette. “You left, asking me to care for a giveaway of your identity, jackass. I can only presume that the night might not have ended well for that _shithead_ little twi―” Nick spits it out with an ugly grimace, before cutting himself off abruptly and taking yet a short drag on the cig. “I went to Mikey’s,” he says, more calmly. “After you left. I’d have left if you were there, I swear. But you weren’t. So I spent the night, listened to music and shit. Made enough of a ruckus for the neighbours underneath to bang on the door. Didn’t open. If anyone asks you were at home, blasting Bon Jovi’s _Blaze of Glory_ and drinking yourself shitfaced. Mikey probably got a call of complaint too. So there’s your alibi.”

Dean’s heart is hammering so hard it hurts. He feels like he might cry. “Holy shit. You did that for me?”

Nick just gives him a dark look. “ _Do_ you need that alibi?” Dean thinks of the state Noah was in when he left. He draws breath to answer but Nick holds up his hands to stop him. “Nevermind. I don’t want to know.”

They stroll along the gravel path, smoking and watching people. Suddenly Nick grips his arm to stop him, and spins him around to face him. “You can’t seriously mean that you let that little fuckwad slut fuck your ass?” he says with a scowl.

Dean laughs. “Fuck no! ‘Course I didn’t. A lost little boy like that? Hell no.”

Nick grunts, gives him another dark stare and resumes walking. Dean throws an arm around his shoulders, broad and strong and perfect. “Dude. The way you’re acting, one might almost think you’re jealous,” Dean purrs. Nick just grunts again. “Don’t worry, baby. There’ll never be anyone that can replace you,” Dean jokes with a cheeky smile and gives Nick's shoulder a squeeze. It isn't a joke though. That’s the scary part.

* * *

Deciding to act as if he were single, comes with mixed feelings. Back is the thrill of getting to enjoy new bodies, flirting, and just feeling free spirited. What's new though, is the utter _contempt_ he feels for anyone who’s susceptible to his flirting. He fucking hates every fucking one of them and he can’t explain why. They’re all blind idiots that should know better than to be drawn to the messy, discarded trash that is Dean Winchester. He’d be equally happy to bash their faces in as he is fucking them or trading hand- or blow jobs in a toilet stall. He’s itching for a fight. He goes for sex instead. He finds someone in almost every bar they go to. 

He does what Nick does―that's to say, he is quick about chatting them up, disappear for a short while to some secluded space and do his thing―and then returns to Nick's side like a homing pigeon. And that's the best part. Because Nick acts if he’s jealous. He doesn’t _say_ anything. He stares. Eyes cold and hard. But not at Dean―at whoever touches Dean. Whenever Dean catches a glimpse of Nick staring like that his heart flutters and his belly fills with butterflies. Maybe the hate Dean feels for his partners, is just a reflection of Nick’s hate for them? Could be. He doesn’t know. Sadly, none of this stops Nick from hooking up with women.

The fourth day this goes on Nick goes for a guy instead of a woman, and Dean’s own jealousy flares hot and black. The anger and loathing towards almost anything and everybody, that has been simmering since Nick’s rejection the night they had sex, comes pouring through the cracks in his chassis. Nick and the guy are just talking, flirting. (Of course the motherfucker has freckles too. All sandy blond, with a perfect fucking smile.)

Dean’s not having it. He abandons the dart game he’s been playing and heads straight for the guy, tapping a finger against his shoulder. “If you know what’s good for you, you get yourself away from my partner right about now.”

This guy's smarter than the last one. He takes one look at Dean and backs away, holding his hands up apologetically. “I didn't know, man. I'm sorry.”

Nick's glaring ice and daggers at Dean but Dean doesn’t give a shit. “Dean, what the fuck?”

Dean steps in close, puts his hands on the bar behind Nick and smirks nastily, their faces inches apart. “You thought I was joking the last time? I'm not.” Dean pulls his lip up in a sneer. He should be paying attention to how Nick’s lips draw to a thin line and how his blue eyes starts radiating cold rage, blackening, but he’s too caught up in his own dark jealousy. “You wanna fuck guys? You do it when I'm not around. I swear, I'll kill em. I'll fucking kill em! Don't you ever dare picking up some lowlife freckled whore in front of me again.”

Nick isn’t one to be fucked with. Dean should know that. He has time to see Nick’s nose wrinkle and his lips draw up in a feral expression before Nick’s head connects with his with a crack that resounds in his whole head. It’s quickly followed by a fist, exploding pain in the left side of his face. Dean’s unconscious before he even hits the ground.

* * *


	26. Wake Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Dean has reached self-esteem level sub-zero, and this is not a pretty chapter.

* * *

# Wake Up

* * *

_The smell of blood and smoke is cloying. He’s sweating and panting in the blistering sun, stumbling, but scared shitless of falling. Each breath burns his mouth and dries it out even more, filling it with dust. Sergeant Barnes is heavy, an unconscious dead weight on his shoulders, locked in his fireman’s carry. His legs are burning from lactic acid, yet he keeps running, driven by fear. A few hundred yards and they’ll be safe. He doesn’t even hear it incoming before it feels like his side has been punched by the hand of God and he’s sent flying through the air, pain like nothing else searing through his leg, and Barnes being torn from his grip. He lands on his other side, hitting his head and getting his side roughly compressed, all air knocked out of him and unable to draw another breath. His ears are ringing on maximum volume. Barnes lands with a heavy thud in front of him, vacantly staring from what’s left of her face, half of her body just gone…_

“NOOO!” Dean sits up in bed, the walls ringing with the echo of his cry. His cheeks are wet, and he is cold and clammy. His head and face hurts like a bitch, so does his ribs and the side of his waist. One eye feels tender and is swelled shut. The smell of blood still fills his nostrils, coppery taste in his mouth. It takes him a couple of panicked gasps for air to realise that he isn’t in the desert, and that the taste and smell of blood is real. He’s staring out over the skylight from Michael’s bedroom, it’s night, casting the room in a blueish light. He’s got a blanket over himself, but is fully dressed. Mentally lodging in the fact that he’s safe, the first sob tears through his body, closely followed by another. The tears from his dream sting his eyes, pushed forward by new ones welling up.

“I’m sorry.”

Dean flinches from the voice, head snapping around to see Nick lying on his side on the far side of the bed, one arm cradling two liquor bottles and supporting his head with the other, watching him. The knuckles on the hand cradling the booze are bruised. He’s been hidden from view by lying on the side of Dean’s black eye. The first feeling he gets from seeing Nick is relief. Next comes shame, guilt, and a tendril of fear. Dean curls in on himself, runs a hand over his face to dry off the tears, then flinches when he touches it due to the pain. “What are you doing here?”

Nick takes a drink straight out of one of the bottles, draining the last of it, and puts the empty bottle away. “I had to get you home safe.”

A bitter laugh rips out of Dean’s mouth, swiftly cut off by the pain in his ribs. He touches his side gingerly. “Fuck, Nicky, did you kick me when I was down?”

Nick hums, it’s not an affirmative nor a denial. “I’m sorry, Dean. I don’t know what got into me. I never meant to hurt you,” he says and sits up cross legged, facing Dean. He looks down and rubs his bruised knuckles, looking remorseful. “It will never happen again.”

“Why not? You gonna abandon me again?” Dean asks, turning his head away, not wanting Nick to see how his lips tremble. The warble carries in his voice though, giving him away.

“You still _want_ me to stick around?”

Dean nods, head still turned away and swollen eye preventing him from seeing Nick. But Nick sees him.

Nick scoots himself closer, curving his legs around Dean’s back and bent legs, tugging him against his chest like a child. “I’ll never leave you again,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Dean. I didn’t mean to, you gotta believe me. I’ll never hurt you again.”

“Yeah you will,” Dean refutes. Even if he never beats him up again, he’ll be the cause of so much hurt without even knowing it. 

“No, no. Never again. I promise, darling. Never again. Here,” he digs up two painkillers out of his pocket, “couldn't give em to you while you were out cold. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand.” Nick talks with a soothing, remorseful voice and strokes him softly over the hair. 

Dean takes the pills from him, another sob threatening to break free because he’s fucking weak and pathetic. “Fuck water. Gimme the fucking booze.”

Nick gives it to him without arguing. It’s not like Dean doesn’t know you shouldn’t mix booze and painkillers. He just doesn't care. He swallows the pills and washes them down with deep gulps of what turns out to be cognac, drinking like it is water, then keeps the bottle in his lap. He leans towards Nick, accepting the comfort he offers. “S my fault anyway. I should have seen it coming.”

Nick hums noncommittally. “You were being a little shit, testing my patience. I should have kept it together. I really don't know what came over me.” To Dean’s surprise he places a soft kiss on Dean’s forehead, then another one on his bruised cheek. It hurts, and Dean flinches, but when a third one is placed on his swollen eye, he relaxes. If this is the reward for getting a simple beating, then he’ll take a helluva lot more of them.

“Do you always have to go for the fucking freckled ones?”

“You know that’s a thing for me.”

Dean pushes himself from the ring of Nick’s arm, remains sitting between his legs, but turns his upper body and head away, hiding his face. “Yeah, but Christ! I’ve only seen you go for guys that look like me. Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Are you concussed or just fucking stupid?” Nick asks with annoyance, grabs the cognac bottle from him and chugs deeply from it.

“Hey! I get it! I’m not good enough and you search out better versions. You don’t have to fucking rub it in.”

Nick inhales his drink and sputters, putting the bottle in Dean’s lap as he coughs. “For crying out loud, is that what you think? That’s just fucking dumb.”

“ _You’re_ fucking dumb,” Dean counters, still refusing to look at him.

“You gotta stop fucking around,” Nick says, changing the subject.

“What does it even matter who I fuck? As long as you don't fuck me you ain't got a say in the matter. And Mike can just bite me. All that whispering ‘I love you, you belong to me, you're only mine’, and the asshole puts a ring on somebody else's finger. How's that fucking fair?”

“That’s the only reason you fuck around? Cuz of Mikey?”

“Yeah. So?”

“You could catch something from those disgusting sluts you whore yourself out to,” Nick says, the repulsion carrying in his voice.

“Oh, look who's talking. You’ve slept with anyone who'd let you for as long as I've known you. And I use a condom, jackass.”

You didn’t with me.”

“No. That’s because it's you. Congrats. The only ones I could have caught something from is you and that goddam brother of yours. What do you want? A medal?”

Nick’s quiet. His breathing is heavy, coming in in short puffs like if he’s angry. Dean still refuses to look at him. “Have you brought any of em here?” Nick asks at last, his voice deceptively calm in contrast to the anger he seems to be radiating.

“No. But if I find someone good enough, I sure as hell gonna.”

“Good enough.” Nick’s voice is so flat Dean can’t even figure out if it's a statement or a question. 

“Yeah. Another lion.”

“You called _me_ a lion.”

Dean turns back towards Nick, glaring daggers. “Yeah. So what? Ain’t fucking easy to find someone that measures up to that description. But I'm gonna. And when I do, I’m taking him here and letting him bend me over on every fucking surface.”

“Like hell you will,” Nick growls. The dark anger in his eyes and the lips pulled up in a snarl makes Dean flinch and curl in on himself again, looking away. He’s too beaten at the moment to fight. “No, no, no. Darling, don't do that,” Nick says, sounding contrite all over. “I told you, I'll never hurt you again. Not you. I promise.” He tugs Dean close and places gentle kisses on the crown of his head. “I'm sorry, okay? I'm so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to kick you. Darling, please forgive me.” More gentle kisses follow and Dean unfolds. 

Those hated fucking tears start stinging Dean’s eyes again. He’s a fucking baby girl, crying for whatever. He tries to hold a sob back and fails. Nick’s hand comes up to cradle the unhurt side of his face, guiding his face around towards Nick. Soft kisses are placed on his temple, his swollen eyelid, his cheekbone. “ _Shhh, shh._ I’ve got you. Babe, I’m sorry. Relax, I’ve got you,” Nick whispers, placing yet another soft kiss against his wounded side. Dean does relax, melting into the curve of Nick’s body. But he can’t stop the tears from coming. He’s fucking pathetic and he knows it. Nick lifts the bottle out of his lap and holds it up to his lips unprompted, tipping it as Dean drinks. 

The strong liquor makes Dean’s busted lips sting a bit, and when he tilts his head forward to stop, some spill on his chin as Nick isn’t quite fast enough to stop pouring. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

Nick puts the bottle back in Dean’s lap and dries his chin off with a finger. He keeps putting butterfly kisses on Dean’s face. It hurts less now. The painkillers start doing their job. Nick holds him tenderly, combing his long hair out of his face. Dean turns his head further towards Nick, being drawn by the tender treatment like a moth to a flame. He’s a big emotional wound, bleeding his pain all over the place, and Nick’s tenderness is band aid. Nick’s soft lips reaches his, giving him a chaste kiss. When Nick withdraws, Dean’s hand shoots up to catch his neck, pulling him back. Nick complies, whispering another “ _I’m sorry_ ,” before sucking Dean’s busted lower lip into his mouth, suckling lightly. The fucking tears won’t stop spilling from Dean’s eyes, but at least he isn’t sobbing anymore. Nick’s fingers finds their way inside of Dean’s tee, rough pads feeling soft skin carefully where they can reach. Nick’s tongue is in Dean’s mouth. The taste of blood mixed with cognac and Nick’s own taste is possible the best taste in the world. He’s afraid that Nick will leave him again. That he will realise how ugly Dean is―must be, with his face such a mess―and stop in disgust. 

Nick breaks the kiss, eyes tender and remorseful. “I’ll never hit you again.” Dean tries to pull him back for another kiss, but Nick grabs his hair to prevent him. “You believe me, right?”

_No_.

Dean believes that Nick believes himself right now. He also believes Nick didn’t mean to go off on him like a fucking landmine. It’s Dean’s own fault for stepping on it. It’s not Nick’s fault.

He knows what’s expected of him now. What he needs to say to make Nick stay. “Yes.” The grip on his hair is loosened and Nick is back to kissing him.

Words are _hard_. 

Dean’s good at talking bullshit, not saying what he means. When you say what you feel… That’s how you get hurt and rejected. That’s when people tell you how unimportant you are, how little energy they have to spare for you. Words are hard.

Sex however, he speaks fluently. 

When Nick’s hands travel higher under his shirt Dean’s the one to break the kiss. He removes the bottle in his lap, takes one more drink from it and leans away to put it on the nightstand. Then he pulls his shirt over his head to give Nick full access. He regrets doing that as soon as they see his left side and Nick sucks in a horrified breath. For a beat Dean’s afraid he’ll shy away from the dark, swollen bruising on his ribs and waist. Fuck, but you can even see the shape of the tip of a boot in one place.

“Shit! I really didn’t mean to do that. You gotta believe me. I’m so, so, sorry.” Nick touches his sore side gently with his fingers. 

“I’ve had worse. But feel free to kiss and make it better,” Dean quips, feigning nonchalance and falling miles short. The pills are doing their job by now though, so it doesn’t hurt as much as it should. Nick retracts the leg supporting Dean’s back and pushes gently on his chest, making him lie down. Dean may have made a joke out of it using his tone, but Nick takes him for his word. He bends down and starts placing butterfly kisses over the bruises. 

He kisses the ribcage and works his way downward. Once he reaches Dean’s midriff he strays onto the belly, away from the bruises and rubs his nose against it. He looks up at Dean. “Better?”

“Fuck sake, dickhead. Don’t stop,” Dean whines. “And get me out of my pants. I don’t like sleeping with my clothes on.”

Instead of obliging him, Nick crawls upward and supports himself on straight arms over Dean’s face, looking down on him. “Dean. Don’t fuck anybody but Mikey or me in this apartment,” he says with a soft voice, but a hand goes to stroke Dean’s tender side. It feels like a threat. So much for never again.

Dean frowns, hiding the slight tendril of fear behind bluster. “Fuck Mike. I _live_ here. I’ll do whatever fuck I want to, pal.” He can feel that cottony, detached feeling starting to take hold as the painkillers are kicking in more and more.

Anger, thinly veiled but gone in an instant, flashes on Nick’s face. He grunts, but doesn’t answer. Instead he bends down and starts kissing the bruises downward again. Dean closes his eyes. Yeah. He’d take a beating for this. 

The bite comes as a surprise. 

It’s not hard, wouldn’t have hurt a bit if he hadn’t already been bruised. Nick’s teeth drags along his waist, tongue laving at the same time, making Dean suck in a breath. 

“Sorry. I got carried away,” Nick apologises.

“Fuck sake, Nick. Do whatever you want to. I’m game, alright?”

Nick looks up and scrutinizes him for a beat, eyes seeming to gleam in the bluish light. Then he goes down again, with a whole lot of less care for underlying damage. Kissing, scraping teeth, licking. He tugs at Dean’s belt, opening it without removing his head from where he’s currently focusing on Dean’s belly button and the slight bump below. He opens the fly and tugs Dean’s pants down, bringing his boxers along at the same time. Dean helps by kicking and pulling his legs out of the pants. Nick’s hands are fucking everywhere they can reach and he sucks Dean’s dick into his mouth as soon as it’s freed. Dean gasps and buries his hands in Nick's hair. Nick’s mouth is warm, ardent, and sloppy. Dean’s dick starts filling straight away. God, he’s longed for this!

He lets go of Nick’s hair with one hand and reaches for the lube in the nightstand drawer. Nick pops off to see what he’s doing. He chortles delightedly when Dean throws the lube to land beside him. He sits up and removes his cargo pants and socks―leaving boxers and tee on―then uncaps the lube and squirts some on his fingers, before bending down and sucking Dean’s cock back into his mouth. A finger probes at Dean’s hole, so he relaxes to let it in. Another finger is added fairly quickly, as Dean’s gasps and ragged breaths escalates. Dean tugs at his hair. “Come on, Nick. Kiss me.”

Nick edges up without taking his fingers out of Dean’s ass, Dean fucking back on them, wanting the goddamned prepping to be over with. Nick kisses him as asked, with as much fervor as he’d sucked Dean’s dick earlier. A third finger is added with some burn. The cottony detached feeling has started taking over Dean’s mind. With it comes the single-mindedness he’d experienced at Nick’s place when Nick was asleep. It’s fucking good. The pain is numbed but he’s very aware of everything Nick’s doing to him. He strokes Nick’s sides, lets his hands find their way under his tee. He’s barely touching skin― _scar tissue_ ―before Nick swats away one of his hands and breaks the kiss. “Not that side,” he says rather harshly. “The other one’s okay,” he adds more softly.

Dean nods and grabs Nick’s hair with the hand that just got denied access to touch Nick’s messed up side, pulling him back into the kiss. “I’m ready, Nick.”

Unlike Mike, Nick doesn’t draw it out. He sits up, pulls out his dick from the front opening of his boxers, not bothering to take them off. He lubes himself up and presses his cock to Dean’s hole. As expected, it hurts. Even if he pushes in slowly, giving Dean time to adjust. His mouth is open in a strained ‘O’, his breath coming in short puffs. Dean wants to hurry this along, trying to push him in faster with his heels to Nick’s ass. Nick complies, bottoming out with a whine, falling forward to lie heavily on Dean with a “ _Fuck_.”

Dean’s eyes are starting to sting with tears again. Not from pain. It doesn’t hurt _that_ much. He’s far too numbed out by painkillers and booze. Still those tears build up in his eyes and spill over. Of course Nick notices.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I went in too fast,” he says and tries to pull out. 

Dean digs in his fingers in his ass to stop him. “Fuck sake, douchewad. I just woke up from being punched by the hand of God in the Afghani desert. Give me a break and fuck me, will ya?” Dean says scowling.

Nick stares him in the eyes for a beat, before nodding and starting to move. He supports himself on straight arms above Dean, looking down on him as he fucks in and out with slow grinding movements. 

_Fuck, he’s so hot! I must look like fucking shit, face all messed up._

Self-consciously, Dean breaks eye contact and turns his head to the side, hiding the bruised and swollen side in the pillow. Nick’s hand grabs his jaw and twists his face back. “Don’t do that. Don’t hide yourself from me,” he demands, stilling.

“I must be fucking ugly, what with this shit going on,” Dean says and gestures at his black eye.

“Yeah, well, I have myself to blame for spoiling the goods then, don’t I?” Nick answers annoyedly.

“‘S my fault. I shouldn’t have acted the way I did.”

Nick lowers himself down and kisses him soft and sweet, then turns his head to talk with a low voice straight by his ear. “You made me very angry, darling. Don’t do it again.”

Dean pretends to himself the words does not scare him, turns to suck in Nick’s lip in his mouth, biting down hard enough to draw blood. Nick makes a delighted noise, lip straining in a smile between Dean’s teeth. After that all Dean can do is hold on as Nick starts fucking him in earnest. It’s fucking good. Dean loves it. Rough, sloppy, devoted to the cause.

Still, the tears won’t stop. It’s not the bad dream nor the pain. Dean can’t explain why he can’t stop crying. 

Nick doesn’t ignore the tears. He kisses them away, turns soothing. Anytime he does, Dean gets testy, tells him to get his shit together and focus at the matter at hand, so Nick does.

* * *


	27. Stay With Me

* * *

# Stay With Me

He wakes up with a headache and his arm slung over a clothed midriff. He opens his eyes to find that one is sore and only opens to a slit. To make up for that he finds Nick snoring lightly beside him. He still has his tee and boxers on.

Dean’s heart takes an excited leap. Then comes the fear.

Oh fuck. What if he freaks out and goes AWOL on me again? No. I fucking won’t let that happen!

He sits up. He’s sore fucking everywhere. 

Worth it. 

Mission: Get Nick to stay. 

He gets out of bed without waking Nick, wiggling carefully from under his arm. He grabs his pack of cigarettes, taps one out to put behind his ear, sticks another one in his mouth and lights it while trying to sneak out of the bedroom silently.

Fucking _everything_ hurts when he moves.

He puts the pack of cigarettes on the bar desk separating the lounge area from the kitchen and drags himself to the bathroom to relieve himself. The mirror wall in the bathroom makes him wince. He looks like shit. Nick fucked him up bad. He’s a fucking moron for pissing Nick off. He shoulda known better. He fucking deserves this and worse. The urgency to get Nick to stay is upped a couple of notches. Last night in the dark it might not have looked so bad, but in full daylight he looks like a fucking van ran him over. A couple of times. He’s fucking ugly. 

This ain't bruises I can cover up with makeup. Hell, fucking body paint wouldn’t do the trick.

His eyes starts stinging, and hell if he’s gonna cry about it like a little bitch. It’s not the first beating he’s ever taken. He’s had worse. Hell, it’s _nothing_ against how he looked after the airstrike. Or felt, for that matter. But pain isn’t what bothers him. It’s how ugly he is. He gets into the tub and takes an ice cold shower to get the swelling down. With how bruised his whole side is, ice packs simply will not do. He tallies up in his head every trick in the book to get bruising to go away faster. Drinking ginger tea, eating papaya, pineapple, vitamin C, using leeches (ain’t got any of them around). Cooling it down, and applying heat packs after day two. Massaging its edges. All is probably useless for damage of this magnitude. And nothing― _nothing_ ―will make it go away before Nick wakes up. His ribs hurt. Nothing’s broken, but there might be a crack there somewhere.

I can’t believe the fucker kicked me when I was out cold.

I had it coming.

Whatever, man. Priorities. Get him to stay.

When he gets out he’s so cold his teeth are shattering. He dries himself off and brushes his teeth, combs his hair, trying not to look at himself in the mirror. Then he goes to make breakfast.

Dean’s plating bacon, cigarette hanging from his lips, when Nick shuffles out of the bedroom, wearing a shirt and pajama pants that Dean recognises from a box in Mike’s walk-in closet. He stops by the bar desk dividing the lounge and the kitchen, rubs a tired hand over his face and looks at Dean bemusedly. Dean wants to shy away from the scrutiny―hide himself. Instead he gives Nick a cheeky smile. Fake it til you make it. “Mornin’,” he offers.

“I was going to convince you to come back to bed, but then I smelled coffee. Man, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Dean scoffs and frowns at him. Frowning hurts. “ _Oy_ , it’s your fault I fucking look like this.”

Nick winces and holds up his hands in defense. “Not what I meant, Dean. Naked, save for an apron? Making us _home made breakfast_? Hell, but that constitutes for one of my best wake ups in years.”

Dean rubs his neck self-consciously. “Hey, I’ve just fried some shit up. No biggie,” he says and shuts the stove off. He’s fried bacon, eggs (sunny side up), tomatoes and cucumber. (Fried cucumber is surprisingly good.) It’s not exactly something you can fail at. He pours a cup of coffee and puts in front of Nick. He knows Nick drinks two cups in the morning. The first one black, the second one with creamer and sugar.

Nick ignores the cup and comes around into the kitchen. “It is to me,” Nick counters. Dean turns around to face him as he walks up to Dean. He stops close, looking at Dean’s ruined face, pursing his lips.

“Didn’t anyone teach you it’s impolite to stare,” Dean quips defensively.

Nick hums noncommittally and reaches up to touch the left side of Dean’s face lightly. Dean flinches. Nick leans closer to reach around and tug the apron open, then lifts it over Dean’s head and throws it to the floor, looking down on the black and blue side of Dean’s torso. Dean’s cheeks burn hot under the scrutiny. He takes a drag of the cigarette to keep himself calm, and lets Nick inspect. There’s no use hiding and Nick’s intent on what he’s doing. He runs a hand over the bruised side, noting Dean’s flinch. “You’re cold,” he states.

“Took a cold shower to reduce swelling.”

Nick’s hand feels burning on his skin. He plucks the cigarette from Dean with his other hand, takes a deep drag on it, and hands it back. Then he strokes from the hips and up with both hands on either side of Dean’s torso. By the chest he fans his fingers out, thumbing over Dean’s nipples. Dean’s breath hitches and his nipples peak. “Oy, Nick. You wanna eat your breakfast cold or what? Cuz I’m telling ya, you keep that up you’re gonna have to finish what you start.”

Nick’s expression is neutral. He lets smoke out through his nose and looks up to meet Dean’s gaze. “You’re in pain.”

“ _Du-uh_.”

Nick promptly withdraws his hands, just to dig up a blister strip out of a pocket in the PJs. He reaches for Dean’s mug on the counter behind Dean, thrusts it in his hand and pops a pill from the blister strip. “We can’t have that, now can we? Open your mouth,” he orders and holds up the pill to Dean’s lips. Dean obediently opens, watching Nick lick his lips as he places the pill in Dean’s mouth. Dean takes a sip of his coffee to wash it down. Nick pops another pill from the strip and repeats the process. He breathes through his nose, completely intent on Dean. The lack of words births a tenseness in the air. Nick studies him, gaze focusing from one eye to the next, deliberating. Then he slowly pushes a third pill out of the strip and equally slow, raises his hand towards Dean’s lips. He raises an eyebrow in question. 

Dean’s definitely going to get high on that dosage. 

There was a time Dean wouldn’t even have considered it. Those days are long gone. Shot to hell in an airstrike. Drowned in survivor's guilt, by Barnes taking the brunt of force that would have killed him, had he not been carrying her on his back. Smothered in the abandonment by dad and Sam. By too many losses. By nights thrashing in gory nightmares, where, if he was lucky, Mike was at home and would hold him, cooing soothingly until he stopped crying, then pretend nothing’s happened to let him save face in the morning―even if he’d lashed out and hurt Mike before waking up.

Dean opens his mouth.

Nick’s nostrils flare, gaze turning sharp and darkly pleased as he puts the pill in Dean’s mouth. The look only lingers for a beat, and Dean doesn’t understand it. But he likes it. Nick smiles. “Thank you for making breakfast, Dean. Let’s dig in. I don’t want to let a luxury like that go to waste,” he says and backs away to sit down by the bardisk. He pops painkillers from the blister strip and swallows as he goes, but Dean doesn’t know how many he takes.

For once, Dean feels self conscious about being naked. He takes a drag on the cig, taps the ashes off in an ashtray, and goes to put some clothes on.

When he comes back, dressed in a pair of worn out, loose fitting tracksuit pants and an equally worn out tee, Nick’s eating with a healthy appetite, making noises of pleasure. Dean chuckles in bemusement. “Dude. It’s not _that_ good.”

“Says you, you lying son of a bitch.”

“Lying? What did I lie about?” Dean queries and slides up on the stool beside Nick where his plate is, and starts shoveling food into his mouth.

Nick drinks a sip of coffee before answering. “About not being able to cook. _I_ can’t cook. And if I ever fried something, it sure as hell doesn’t taste like this.”

Dean laughs, inwardly preening. “Oh, come on. It’s just butter and some spices.”

“No, this is great. Fucking beats pop tarts, I’ll tell you that. I really can’t cook for shit. I don’t know what to do with half of the things you stocked up my pantry with.”

“Why not?”

Nick grunts. “We grew up very rich, darling. We didn’t have to cook for ourselves. Then I joined the army and they saw to provisions. I don’t know. Anytime I try making something that doesn’t go in the microwave or only require being heated in a pot, it falls flat, tasting like shit.”

“Mike cooks a little. He’s good at it.”

Nick shovels the last of his breakfast in his mouth and nods as he chews. “Mhm. He’s perfected a few dishes. He’s a perfectionist in all he does.” Nick takes a sip of his coffee and stares into nothing, gaze getting distant while his lips quirk in a smile. “Cas is as lousy at cooking as me. Worse, even. At least I don’t burn things. Gabe, now he enjoys it. Or making sweets and desserts at least. It’s a hobby of his. But Mikey…” Nick’s smile turns surprisingly tender as he drifts into memories. “The first dishes he perfected were waffles, and Swedish pancakes, because that was Gabe’s favourites, that both I and Cas like too. Then he perfected beef tenderloin provencale, since it’s my favourite. Then scallops, since Cas is mad about them. It doesn’t come naturally to him. He’d try and try and try, until he got it right. Being a pissbaby anytime he failed. He doesn’t enjoy cooking one bit. But when he loves someone…” Nick shakes himself out of it and looks at Dean. “He done your favourite yet?”

Dean shrugs. He can feel the cottony feeling from the painkillers starts to creep in around the edges. “I haven’t told him my favourite dish.”

“You tried Swedish pancakes?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Ask Mikey to make em for you. You know, in Sweden, they eat them for dinner? Not breakfast or dessert, as you might think. Despite eating them with whipped cream or icecream, with jam. Fucking weirdos.”

Dean’s feelings are torn. It hurts that Nick keeps pushing for him to stay with Mike, but at the same time, Nick ain’t going anywhere, despite what happened yesterday. It’s a win.

* * *


	28. Adapting The Relationship

* * *

# Adapting The Relationship

That first day, Dean’s a bit tense. Nick’s being very ambiguous about where things are going. They watch TV, Nick half lying, half sitting on the couch, head leaned against Dean’s shoulder. Both of them making crappy jokes and running commentary, making things hilarious. Late in the afternoon, Nick suddenly says “I should go.”

“Stay.” It isn’t so much a plea as it is an order. The painkillers, while making him drowsy and his limbs heavy at this dosage, separates him far enough from his feelings, that making demands is a piece of cake.

Nick twists around to look at him from under heavy eyelids, pursing his lips, deliberating. “Fair enough.” He cuddles closer, throws an arm around Dean’s midriff and rests his head on his pec. It’s that easy. Nick stays.

* * *

Nick moves around the penthouse as if he lives there. The box in the back of Mike’s walk-in closet is his. He’s got even more clothes in a wardrobe in one of the guestrooms. It’s his room. Nick had told him Mike and he used to be close, but it really hits home when he moves around in the penthouse. And unlike Dean, he ventures into all the rooms. It isn’t too big for Nick. There’s a gym and a sauna on the other side of the penthouse and Nick uses it. Dean makes the mistake of entering the sauna while Nick’s in there. Something’s promptly hurled at him. What, he doesn’t know, shying away out the door before it hits the wall with a clunk. “Dude, what the _hell_?”

“I’m _naked_ in here, asswipe!” Nick calls back.

“Yeah, so?”

“Wait your fucking turn!”

“Fuck sake, Nicky! It can’t be that bad! I’m the one looking like fucking Quasimodo in the face. Quit being such a pussy!” The only reason Dean’s even in this part of the house, is Nick. Who gives a shit about some scarring anyway?

“I said no! Now fuck off and wait your turn!”

Dean grunts and withdraws.

Nick proves to be helluva lot more self-conscious than Dean had realised. He chooses to shower in one of the showers on the furthest side of the house, since it only has one small mirror instead of the full mirror wall the big bathroom by the lounge sports. He never sleeps in the nude and won’t let Dean touch his scarred side. 

Dean’s jacked up on painkillers most of the time. Nick will supply him with them, which, on one hand is great. Barely any pain, easy to fall asleep, a good mood, distance towards his feelings, and single-minded focus. No drawbacks, right? And Nick get this heated, fierce look in his eyes, every time he puts a pill directly into Dean’s mouth. It’s mostly gone as soon as it came, and it’s fucking hot, that’s what it is.

On the other hand, something about it that reminds Dean about Mike. He can’t put his finger on why. He’s probably just being paranoid.

* * *

They don’t have sex, but Nick sleeps with him. Nick’s a fucking cuddle slut, just like Mike. But hey! Dean ain’t complaining. Cuddling is good enough for him. 

Nick too, has nightmares. If he’s tossing and turning, showing signs of being back in hell, he’ll calm when held tight. Dean needs to wake up to be brought back from his hell, Nick doesn’t.

One night Dean wakes up from Nick’s restless sleep. Nick’s sweating, throwing his head from side to side, mumbling incoherently in distress. Unlike Dean, Nick doesn’t seems to fight in his sleep, so it’s safe to throw an arm and a leg over him, restraining him. “Hey, hey. You’re safe. You’re at home. I’ve got ya. I’ve got ya,” Dean coos and kisses his forehead.

“Mikey?” Nick mumbles in surprise, still asleep. “Mikey,” he repeats in relief and rolls into Dean, burrowing and clinging. He isn’t awake. Dean’s heart’s working overtime, trying to interpret this. Maybe this makes sense. Nick told him Mike and he slept in the same bed as adults. He spent his leave with Mike, and nightmares is a common enough plague for soldiers. Dean _had_ mimicked Mike’s words and behaviour. It means nothing except that Michael has a history of comforting sleeping soldiers from their nightmares.

The next time Dean wakes up, it’s almost he who says the wrong name. He wakes up from a mouth trailing kisses over his bruised chest and hands gently caressing his belly and side. He’s hard already, which means it’s probably been going on for a while for his sleeping body to get going. He cracks his eyes open before he opens his mouth, thankfully. His heart flutters when he realises it’s Nick. “You gonna have all the fun without me?”

Nick jerks, head snapping up, eyes wide and guilty.

Dean sniggers. “Now that’s not fair. Cutting me out of the play time.”

“I woke up with a boner and a naked body beside me, so sue me,” Nick grumbles defensively.

Dean smirks. “Hey, I’m game. Mike wakes me up like this all the time. Can’t get much better, can it?”

Nick’s eyes darken. “Does he now…?” he asks with a deceptive calm.

“Hell yeah, he does,” Dean agrees, feeling like a teasing little shit.

“Bet he wouldn’t like me taking his boyfriend in his bed.”

“Bet you’re right. You think you could outdo him? Mike’s a fantastic lover, after all,” Dean goads. It certainly isn’t a lie. Dean might have a thing for overly rough sex, but even without feeding Dean’s masochistic streak, Mike _is_ a fantastic lover, whose repertoire spans from gentle lovemaking, to fast, devoted, and hard. He doesn’t shy away from public ‘performances’ and is as addicted to his partner’s pleasure as Dean is.

Nick grunts, bites down on the bruise over Dean’s ribs, making him flinch. He laves at the mark he leaves. Dean makes a soft sound in response.

“Just fuck me already. I’ll let you do whatever afterwards, just…”

Nick chuckles darkly and reaches for the lube on the nightstand. “Prep or not?”

“Not. Go slow and we’ll be fine.”

Nick grins at him, a baring of teeth, then sits up, manhandles him onto his stomach and pulls him up by his hips. “You know, it would break Mikey’s heart if he knew we were doing this,” Nick states as he’s lubing himself up with one hand, and smears lube on Dean’s hole with the other.

“Kinda the point, jackass, don’t stall,” Dean says, looking back at Nick over his shoulder and wiggling his ass.

Nick sniggers and rubs his cock against Dean’s hole. “Impatient fucker, aren’t you? Fair enough.” He starts pushing in, slowly, stroking Dean’s spine and sides soothingly, keeping an eye on Dean to see he isn’t going too fast. “Want me to breed you like you were my little bitch?”

“Fuck yeah,” Dean answers and lays his head down on the pillow, focusing on relaxing.

“Want me to fill you up with my come until your belly’s thick with my lion cubs?”

Whoa. Unpredicted and unprecedented, taking the shameful breeding kink one step further. “Oh, _fuck_ , keep talking!” Dean begs, closes his eyes and bites his lip. It’s a fucking shame Nick isn’t naked. Dean doesn’t care if he looks like fucking Wade Wilson underneath those clothes. He wants skin against skin. 

Nick bottoms out with a little giggly sound. He reaches around to wrap his hand around Dean’s dick and stroke it firmly. “No, no, darling. Tell me you want it.”

It’s all it takes for Dean to start running his mouth.

* * *

Afterwards, when the both of them have come, and Nick lies heavy on Dean’s back, soaking up both of their sweat with his shirt, trying to catch his breath, Nick asks “Do you do this with Mikey too?”

“I’ve already told you, I don’t tell him to… to…” It’s hard to say it, when not caught in upward spiraling fire.

“Not what I meant. Do you chant his name as if your life depended on it?”

Dean’s quiet for a beat, deliberating if he should lie or not. “It happens,” he admits at last.

Nick makes a noncommittal grunt. “He earns it?”

“Yeah.”

Nick’s quiet, just panting by Dean’s ear, and Dean wonders if he made a mistake by being honest. But then, “I could get used to this kind of revenge,” Nick confesses.

“Please do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Nick chuckles, dark and rumbly, making Dean shiver. He grabs a hold of Dean’s hair to twists his head around for an awkward kiss, heedless of morning breath. Dean sure as hell hopes Nick will get used to this. “Oy, Nicky. Was that the first time, or have ya made a habit of copping a feel when I’m sleeping?” Dean asks between sloppy, weird-angled kisses.

Nick sniggers. “Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll never know, now will you?” he teases with narrowed eyes and a cocky smirk.

“Asshole,” Dean chastises with a grin.

“Mmmh,” Nick purrs. “I guess some traits just runs in the family.” It’s unclear if he’s talking about the somnophilic groping or the assholery, but Dean lets it rest.

* * *

Nick cares for Dean’s bruising. He applies ice packs, heat packs, and massages the edges. He cuddles when they watch TV or play video games. The difference is that now all the sudden he might just pause the game and initiate sex out of the blue. He’s fucking crazy about getting deepthroated, having Dean choke himself on his dick ‘til he cries. The rougher he is on Dean during sex, the gentler and sweeter he’ll be afterwards when Dean’s all gooey and pliant. Nick resists the same treatment while giving blowjobs. One would think it was a dominance thing, but no. Because Nick will gladly give a type of blowjobs that, to _Dean_ , marks down as much more subservient. When Dean’s watching TV Nick can slide down between his legs and give him a blowjob that’ll last 40-60 minutes, keeping him from coming. He’s good at measuring Dean’s reactions and adapt to make it last. Dean doesn’t mind giving BJs like that, but it’ll make your jaws cramp and Dean always feel a bit like he’s failing when it takes too long to get a guy to come. The point of this kind of BJ, from Nick’s point of view, doesn’t seem to be to get him to come, but to give him prolonged pleasure.

While Nick can be super sweet and tender after sex, and equally sweet while tending to Dean’s bruises, he does not allow Dean the same honour. Anytime Dean strays into too romantic behaviour or touches, Nick rebuffs him, putting a clear line in the sand. The sex is about revenge, nothing else. They’re best friends and partners, who happens to fuck like animals, but nothing more. Dean can’t be allowed to forget that. It ain’t a bad deal. It really isn’t. Especially not when Dean cooks and Nick sets the table, then after dinner, curl up in front of the TV. They don’t go out because Dean doesn’t want to show himself like this, and Nick won’t let them work, insisting that Dean needs to rest and Dean insists that if Nick works, so does he. The days pass too fast. Nick leaves just an hour before Mike is scheduled to come home. When Mike sets foot inside the door, Dean’s lips are still a bit swollen from one helluva make out session.

* * *


	29. Then Comes The Talks

* * *

# Then Comes The Talks

2 years, 4 month (1 year, 7 months)

 

“Hey. You know if Mikey’s got any dust stashed away somewhere?” Nick asks as Dean’s falling asleep by his side in Mike’s bed. Dean’s lying on his belly. It’s been a hard day, workwise. It isn’t even 10 PM, but he’s drained.

“No dust…” Dean mumbles sleepily. “Cleaners comin’ in twice a week…” Stupid. Nick knows this. The cleaners come and go, paying no heed to Dean and his companion if they’re at home.

Nick’s quiet for a beat, then laughs out loud, full of mirth. He slaps a hand hard against Dean’s ass. Dean yelps and flips over to stare indignantly at Nick’s grinning face. “Not what I was talking about, jackass,” Nick clarifies. “Cocaine. Where’s Mikey’s cocaine stash?”

“Mike does cocaine?” Dean ask in total bewilderment.

Nick reaches for his cigarette pack on the nightstand. He taps one out while looking at Dean in amusement. He’s sitting up, one leg drawn up. He lights the cig, takes a drag on it, and supports his elbow on his drawn up knee. “He did with me, back in the days. I see no reason to believe he’d have stopped. But judging by your surprise, I’m guessing there’s no stash.”

“Really? Mike? Are you sure we’re talking about the same Michael here?”

Nick sniggers and nods. “He’s no saint, darling. Most of the time, he kept himself more sober than me, to make sure he could get me out of trouble. Unless Cas was with us, _somebody_ had to keep a somewhat clear mind.”

And that… that doesn’t _quite_ align with what Nick’s said about Michael up to this point.

But right now, Nick’s fucking high. Nick’s told Dean, long time ago, that he might run his mouth about things he shouldn’t, when he’s jacked up on painkillers. And he took three or four about an hour ago.

Dean rolls around to lay his head in Nick’s lap, revelling in how Nick instantly and gratuitously starts stroking his hand over Dean’s body. “So he does coke?”

“He know how to get the best stuff. You know Mikey, all about networking.”

Dean doesn’t really know about it. When Mike’s with Dean, it’s all about Dean. But he’s both charming and generous towards people who serve them, giving good tips and/or kind words, buying them amazing service with charm as well as with money. “So you used to get high together?” Dean probes.

“I told you, we were a jetset menace. That picture on the wall, where we’re wearing purple ties? We’re both high as kites there.”

“So he’d stay sober to protect you?”

Nick’s lips quirk in a little smile and he stares out over the skyline. “Mh. I inherited our dad’s temper and have bad impulse control at times. Mikey knows I can’t be locked up, so he’d have my back.”

“And how does he know that? You’ve been in prison?” That would be news indeed.

Nick chuckles and shakes his head. “Dad tried to teach me a lesson by locking me into my room when I was in my teens. I could take five days before I jumped out the window in panic. Broke both legs. Mikey’s been covering my ass ever since,” Nick’s voice is mellow. “Dad never did it again. He’s a smart man. Never makes the same mistake twice.” He takes another drag on the cig.

“Wouldn’t a better way to protect yo ass be to stop you from drinkin’ an’ doing drugs?”

Nick snorts out a puff of smoke. His hand goes to caress Dean’s face, where he’d put the shiner on Dean before. “I don’t like being forbid to do something, baby.”

A thought hits Dean. It’s probably nothing, but… “So what had Michael tried to forbid you to do when you kicked his ass badly enough to land him in a hospital?”

“He told you about that?” Nick asks, eyebrows raising in surprise.

“Yeah,” Dean lies. 

“Aww, _man_ ,” Nick complains, scrunching his face up in a regretful grimace. “It was an accident. I didn’t _mean_ to. I swear. He just, made me so angry… and he kept pushing, and pushing…”

“When was this?”

“Right before I joined the army. He tried to forcibly stop me. Fuck, I wish he’d have won that fight. Look, Dean, Mikey and me, we fought sometimes. All brothers do. Back then we were pretty evenly paired too. Before I got my military training. We’d get up to so much shit together. He’d be the pretty facade, and I’d be the thug, more or less. We’d have a blast, but sometimes it went awry and we turned on each other. Just temporarily. I love that fucker more than life, I couldn’t stay mad at him.”

“Love?”

“Did I say love? I meant lov _ed_. He abandoned me when I needed him the most. But is sure as hell wasn’t because I beat him senseless once, more than a decade ago. I fucking hate him.” Nick sneers the last and takes a new drag on the cigarette, petting Dean’s hair as if he’s soothing himself.

“Lucky you’re getting your revenge with me then, huh?”

Nick hums and looks down on him with a fond expression. “Sweetest revenge I’ve ever tasted.”

Dean’s not tired anymore. His stomach flip-flops from the warmth in Nick’s eyes. “Say, Mikey never talks about your family. Could you tell me about them?”

“What do you want to know?”

“You said your dad had a temper…?”

Nick snorts. “You could say that,” he says dryly. “I’m not like him. He gets mad and stays mad, but he’s cold and calculated. It’s like he makes a conscious decision to be angry and sticks to his decision. He never shouts or yells. Except once. It lasted a whole fucking year. We learned to make ourselves scarce, thread lightly not to evoke his wrath. We all developed different techniques to deal with it. Gabe tried to lighten the mood with jokes, Cas melted into the shadows, Mikey started excelling at fucking everything, being perfect, and I told Father to go fuck himself. With a cactus. Fuck, but that period I learned to run like a fucking gazelle.” Nick chuckles and shakes his head, lost in the memory.

“What pissed him off?”

“The investment company that had handled a big share of our investments for generations, suddenly crashed, losing half a billion of our money.”

“Holy shit! That’s a fuckton of money.”

Nick sniggers and looks down on him. He puts his cig by Dean’s lips to let him take a drag. He always looks equally pleased any time Dean lets him do it. Dean doesn’t get what’s the big deal, but okay. Nick hums in amusement. “Indeed. I’m a purebred pedigree, darling, just like Mikey.”

“Sounds like your childhood was worse than mine.”

“Nu-uh. Doubt it. I think fondly of most of my childhood and youth. Our nursemaids were great, caring women. Joshua, our head gardener, had endless patience for my inquisitivity. The cooks would sneak us treats even when we weren’t allowed to have any. We had a lot of freedom apart from being expected to do well in school. And we had each other. As an added bonus, being so close in age, we had a full polo team all by ourselves.”

“Wait. Polo? As in _horse_ polo?”

Nick grins. “The sport of kings. One hell of a game, I’ll tell you. Dangerous as fuck, but fun. It’s not for sissies. I wouldn’t dare trying to play today. I haven’t ridden a horse in fifteen years. I’d probably fall off and break my fucking neck if I tried.”

“Isn’t riding a horse like riding a bike? Once you know how, it stays with ya?” Dean hedges. He’s got no fucking clue.

Nick turns to tap ashes off the cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand. “Maybe. But not polo. I’ve broken my wrist, my ankle, ribs, and been knocked unconscious while playing. Mikey’s scar on the back of his thigh? From polo. He and his pony both went down. She rolled right over him and his thigh bone broke, poking out. Cas is the real badass at it. I think he’s the only one still actively playing.” He sucks at his lower lip in thought. “Ask Mikey if he still plays, will you? I want to know.”

“Sure. I can do that. Don’t expect him to answer truthfully though. But fuck, I had no idea it was such a rough sport.”

“It’s what makes it fun. I like the rough, fast sports. I secretly wanted to become a hockey player when I was a kid, but we had more friends playing polo, and since we got put on horseback before we could walk, polo was a more natural choice. Plus, it went down well with the ladies in our circles.” Nick gives Dean one more hit on the cigarette, takes one last drag himself and then puts the cigarette out.

“I ran, was on the wrestling team, and boxed. Anythin’ I thought would help me get into the military. Usta pack a heavy backpack and run for miles. I’d push myself until I threw up, then push myself a little more. For fucking fun. ‘Ts funny, cuz I think what really got the army interested was my tech skills,” Dean offers.

“So you ended up a combat engineer.”

“I’m a fucking Sapper, and damn proud of it,” Dean exclaims with a grin. It melts off him with a dissatisfied twist to his lips. “Or _was_ , anyway,” he grumbles.

“At least you’re proud.” Nick falls back on the bed to lie down. “They sent me in to weed out enemies amongst civilians too many times. But you know they’re _all_ fucking enemies when the heat is on. I was fucking _great_ at being their attack dog in situations where shit got personal. The guilt tore me apart at times. But then shit happened like that bitch that was crying, pleading that her husband was innocent, just to have a fucking bomb strapped to her body, intending to take us out. And the grenade that got me? Thrown by a fucking pre-teen. How the hell am I supposed to know who are supposedly innocent? We were the fucking invading country for crying out loud. Part of me always hated what I was. You know those fuckers who come up to us, thanking us for protecting our country? If they could see the things I’ve done, that I’ve been asked to do? Fuck, but they wouldn’t be as eager to shake my hand then. _Fuck_.” His head bends up so he can look at Dean. “You ever been involved in hand to hand combat? No guns?”

Dean really doesn’t want to talk about his combat memories.

Nick doesn’t force it. He lays his head back down and closes his eyes. “Well I have. Narrow alleys, apartments, houses, stables, garages, cellars… That’s the kind of places they sent me. I’m good at things I have no business taking pride in being good at. Mikey used to try to talk me into leaving. He said he’d buy me a flower shop or a plant nursery. He’d use every trick in the book to patch my psyche together so I wouldn’t lose myself when I went back to hell. In the beginning, he tried to keep me from drinking too much. Tried to get me to go to therapy on my leaves.” Nick snorts. “Like any therapist would keep a straight face when I describe what it feels like to strangle a man to death with my bare hands. How’s it going to help? Aside from dredging up memories and images that I’ve stuffed in the furthest corners of my mind. It doesn’t. It won’t. So Mikey humoured me. We partied like fucking animals. He used to love it, though. Love me, and my rogue sides. We’d pick up girls and bring them here. Share ‘em, if they let us. Sometimes we went slumming. Played darts and pool in shitty joints like you and I do. Or take a trip to some nice resort to smoke weed, watch the stars and talk about everything.”

“Sounds like you were dating.”

“Fuck you, Dean. I told you we were close. But we were _brother_ kind of close. I just don’t fucking get why he turned traitor all of a sudden.”

“You didn’t have a fight the last time you were on leave before it happened?”

Nick shakes his head. “No. We hadn’t had a real fight for years. On the contrary, we were tighter than ever.”

“And _nothing_ out of the ordinary happened the last time you were home?” Dean probes.

Nick draws breath to answer, halts for a beat, exhales and opens his eyes. He looks at the ceiling, but his eyes are moving as if he’s watching memories in his head. “I… I don’t… no. I don’t think so.”

_Well. That’s a clear and concise answer, ruling out any doubt_ , Dean thinks sarcastically. He wonders what happened. Because something did happen or Nick wouldn’t hesitate before answering.

They both lay quiet for a while, Nick continuously petting Dean’s hair absentmindedly. Then Nick speaks up again. “Would you have married him if he asked? If he wasn’t engaged, I mean.”

“Yeah… I would.”

* * *


	30. Anna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just say, I love you guys so much! I love hearing your reactions and your theories. And when I see you consider situations out of other pov's than the one we're following, it makes me so proud, because Dean's an unreliable narrator, and most characters in this fic has a very strong bias.
> 
> Also, special thanks to my fantastic Beta Mizz_kitty21, for taking the time and betaing the upcoming chapters for me, despite having a flu, and dealing with other draining IRL stuff. Love you! <3

* * *

# Anna

2 years, 6 month (1 year, 9 months)

 

“Come on, Mike. I don’t want to go out,” Dean complains. “It’s fucking raining.”

Mike smiles, warm and amused. “Not in Hawaii.” He takes Dean’s hand and kisses his knuckles, looking both playful and begging at the same time.

Dean blinks at him, then shrugs. “Fair enough.”

* * *

They’re strolling on the beach hand in hand when somebody calls Mike’s name from behind.

“Mikey?”

For a moment Mike’s eyes widen in horror, he pales, and looks very much like someone just stabbed him. He casts a glance at Dean, then straightens his back and turns around to face the speaker without letting go of Dean’s hand, which is a surprise. “Anna! What a surprise,” he says with a big smile.

There’s a pretty redhead in a bikini walking towards them. Still without letting go of Dean, Mike reaches out to pull the girl into a one armed hug. Mike’s palm has started to sweat, his grip on Dean’s hand getting slick. “Oh my God, Mikey. I thought you were in Bangkok. What are you doing here?” Anna asks with a bemused smile when she frees herself. Her eyes dart from Mike, to Dean, to their joint hands, and back to Mike.

Mike tugs Dean close, pulling their joint hands over his shoulders, to make Dean’s arm hang around his neck, Dean’s hand above his heart. Dean flattens his hand above it, feeling it jackhammer like the pulse of a rabbit in the maws of a fox. Mike’s face doesn’t show trace of fear or nervousness though. “I’m here celebrating, actually. Anna, meet Dean, my boyfriend. Dean, this is my little sister, Anna. We’re here to celebrate our two and a half year anniversary.”

And hell if that doesn’t startle Dean. Nothing like it shocks Anna though, by the looks of it. For a beat, she looks struck by lightning. She swiftly covers it up and offers her hand with a smile. “Dean! So nice to finally meet you. Mikey’s told me so much about you. Two and a half year, was it?”

“Yup,” Dean answers, popping the P, and gives her a charming smirk as he shakes her hand. She’s lying her ass off. Maybe it’s a family trait. But Dean doesn’t call her out on it. Not with how cold and clammy Mike’s hand is over his, or how his pulse is so rapid, Dean worries for his health. That’s fucking fear right there. Mike’s just come out to his sister. One would think it isn’t such a big deal considering his other brothers varying sexualities, but then again, Anna would know Mike’s engaged.

Anna smiles. “Well. This is nice. Care to join me for a drink? I’ve been dying to meet you in person.”

Dean feels Mike draw breath to answer for him.

_Like Hell you will!_

“Love to! Of course we will. Ain’t that right, babe?” Dean says and places a kiss on Mike’s forehead, then smiles prettily for Anna.

“Of course.”

They follow Anna to a beach bar nearby, and sit down on beach loungers rather than by the bar. Servers come to take their orders as soon as they sit down. Dean ends up in the middle. He grabs Mike’s lounger and pulls it closer with a tug. Mike yelps and almost tips the lounger over backwards. Anna laughs at them. “Oh you’re cute,” she coos as Mike sits up straight to get his balance back.

Dean flips his sunshades down from his hair to protect his eyes from the glare. “Sweetheart, I’m a lot of things, but cute ain’t one of em,” he says with a shiteating grin.

“No, no. You are. You definitely are,” Mike teases and swings his legs over to sit with them in the small gap between their loungers.

Dean snorts and raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh, I’ll show you cute, later on, hot shot. You can fucking bet on it,” he warns playfully.

“I’m counting on it,” Mike goads with a smirk.

“Oh my god, you remind me of― Wait! You’re a soldier?” Anna exclaims, noticing Dean’s dog tags. She sits up and grabs a hold of them to look. Dean resists the urge to headbutt her for touching them without permission. Mike slaps the tags out of her hand and flips them around to hang on Dean’s back. Neither Anna or Mike acts as if that somehow is weird behaviour. 

“Vet. Met Mike after my medical discharge,” Dean answers politely enough.

“We used to have a brother that was a soldier. Did you know him? Luci Williams.”

“Anael, he’s not _dead_. Show some damned respect. And no, Dean and Luci have never met,” Mike says, baring his teeth at his sister in a less than polite smile.

And okay. That’s... that’s actually interesting. Dean can feel Mike ‘grow’ by his side. It’s a shift in posture, aura. Kinda like Nick somehow unfurls when he’s seducing someone. But Mike’s aura isn’t seductive, it’s aggressive. It’s a far cry from the vitriol he usually reserves for Nick. Dean wonders about this sudden protectiveness towards the estranged brother. 

“I didn’t know you had a brother in the military?” Dean lies in surprise. The server brings their drinks. Fresh, juicy things with lots of vodka, served with a fruit and umbrella as decoration. Dean promptly eats the fruit wedge and puts the umbrella behind his ear.

“Yes. We do. But he’s not our brother anymore,” Anna says dismissively and takes the straw into her mouth to sip her drink.

“What? Yo momma fucked the pool boy?” Dean asks passive aggressively. Anna sputters, inhales her drink and coughs. “Not it? Was he adopted then?” Dean tries again, more innocently.

Mike takes his hand again, sipping his own drink. Dean casts a glance towards him to see if he’s trying to get Dean to shut up. But no. Mike’s lips are twitching like he’s fighting a smile. He’s looking at Anna. His eyes are visible through his shades and his gaze is filled with malicious pleasure.

“No. That’s not it,” Anna says, somewhere between tight anger and exasperated politeness. “He got disowned.”

“Ah. Sorry for the jab at your mother then. But you know, you can sell a dog without its papers, but it’s still a pedigree, if you feel me? I’ve got an asshole brother too. He ain’t talking to me, but he’s still my brother. It’s in the DNA. Can’t argue with science.”

“I suppose not,” Anna concedes warily.

“Hey, I get it,” Dean repents, holding up a hand, bowing his neck and giving her a charming, repentful smile. “Sensitive subject. Don’t worry, princess. Won’t bring it up again. So. Are you here with that guy you were seeing, what’s his name…” Dean spins his hand, two fingers loosely pointed as if he’s reeling in a thread, biting his lip and frowning, looking down as if he’s searching for a name.

“Gerard?” Anna asks puzzled and unwittingly helpful, just as Dean had hoped.

“Yeah, yeah. Gerard. That’s it,” Dean palters.

“Oh, God no. Father didn’t approve. It’s a shame, but what can you do?” Anna answers.

“Yeah, can’t let _any_ daddy take over daddy’s little girl, huh? But the other guy then? Mike told me about, um, I think he’s a polo player if I remember correctly?” Dean hedges wildly and sips from his straw. Fuck, but he knows too little about the Williams to play this game. But Nick had made it sound like playing polo was common in their circles. 

Anna stares at Mike absolutely horrified for a beat before looking back at Dean. “He did? Oh. Well yes. Adolfo. We’re still seeing each other when we can. But it’s supposed to be a secret.” Anna looks at Mike. “I didn’t even know you knew.”

Jackpot. 

“I know a lot of things. But I don’t tell dad everything,” Mike says with a smile. “I _could_. But I don’t.”

There’s definitely some family politics going on here. But ‘secret’ and ‘when we can’? “Does Adolfo’s wife know about your affair?” Dean probes, making educated guesses.

“No. One of his kids almost walked in on us once. But she doesn’t know. I think. I thought nobody knew,” Anna answers and throws another glance at Mike. 

“No offense, Anna, but isn’t he a little old for you?” Dean asks, making assumptions based on ‘married with kid’.

“He’s not _that_ old. And he’s amazing.” Her gaze gets a little dreamy.

“Tell me how you met?” Dean requests curiously. He thinks that if she gets that dreamy, she will want to talk about it. And with the cat out of the bag…

He’s right. Anna starts talking. If Mike didn’t know before, he’ll know now. Dean fakes as good as he can, pretending to know exactly what a ten goal handicap is, and understanding why you have to have several ponies to play. (And what the fuck is a chukka?) Alfonso and Anna meet up while he’s on tour to ‘make love’. He’s married to a model and they have three kids. Age wise, he could be Anna’s father. She assures Dean that he loves her, and would have left his wife for her if there weren’t kids involved. Dean calls bullshit, but not out loud. Alfonso is just after her young, willing little pussy. Whatever. Not his problem.

She asks how he and Mike met, and Dean tells her, ending it by giving Mike a loving kiss. Mike deepens it, showing not a care in the world. He’s been oozing contentment since Dean’s jab at Anna’s repudiation of Nick. 

“Have you met any of our other siblings?” Anna asks, sounding a little too innocent, casting a surreptitious glance at Mike.

“Yeah. Sure. About two years ago now, I think? Gabe and Cas came over to visit us. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?” Dean asks Mike.

“That’s right. They stayed for a week.”

“Really?” Anna doesn’t sound convinced for some reason. “What did you think of them?” she asks as if she’s trying to nail Dean in a lie. She could learn a thing or two from Mike and Nick, when it comes to hiding her thoughts, body language wise.

“Gabe’s one cheeky little shit. Short fucker, but guy’s powered by energizer bunnies. Must be all that fucking sugar he eats, huh? But hey, I ain’t complaining. Once he started making desserts, he had me in the palm of his hand. And Cas…” Dean smirks lopsidedly at Mike. “He gave Mike a run for his money, didn’t he? Almost had me considering doing a switcharoo. If he wasn’t taken already…” That’s what Nick had said, wasn’t it? That he thought Cas and Dean would run off together if they met. 

Mike’s poker faced, but Anna sighs. “Ugh. Yes, Meg. I loathe her. I don’t know why he puts up with her. She’s too salty for her own good.”

_Meg?_ He thought Cas was completely gay and seeing some guy named Balthazar. If he’s closeted too, Mike being closeted is less of a mystery. “Maybe he craves that mineral?” Dean jests dryly.

Anna loses it, laughing. She doesn’t have the same tolerance as they do, and they’re on their fourth drink already.

They part ways not long after. Mike and Dean walk away with arms around each other’s midriffs, Mike leaning his head against Dean. “You are brilliant. I know you’re going to give me shit now, because some of the things you said _has_ to have come from Luci, but you were absolutely brilliant! How’d you know about Anna’s lover?” Mike asks, big smile and eyes wide and excited.

“She told me. I just implied I knew stuff and let her run her mouth.” It isn’t hard to do when you’re not afraid of the consequences, and the person in question has no power to hurt you personally. “And yeah, I pieced together some info based on what you and Nick told me. He stepped into the joint I tried to drink myself into oblivion in, after you and I ran into that Sullivan douche. I woulda drunk myself to death if he hadn’t shoved his fingers down my throat and forced me to throw up. Or I woulda passed out in the street somewhere and fuck knows what woulda happened then.”

“You talked about me,” Mike states, looking down at the sand while he walks. 

“I had a major breakdown, Mike. I’ve got fucking feelings and you trampled all over them, of _course_ we talked about you. You left Nick to _die_ in the hospital, without a fucking word as to why. And I know you lied about Lilith. Nick told me when it happened and the fucking photos on your own wall shows you lied. We had common grounds and he wouldn’t leave me alone and let me drink in peace. Sadly, I don’t remember half of what we talked about, since I got myself blackout drunk. But I do remember the short rundown about your family. Speaking of, your mom’s been popping out babies at a fucking insane rate. What’s up with that?”

Mike looks up, face soft and melancholy. Right now Dean doesn’t want shit to get melancholy, which is why he changed the topic slightly. He still wants to talk about family, but today’s been awesome, restoring something inside of him, what with Michael introducing him as a boyfriend, then not shirking on PDA and backing Dean up against his sister.

“I don’t know. She never nursed us herself and Father had a thing for getting her pregnant. I’ve come to understand that her quick fertility is rare, but apart from that…” Mike shrugs.

“You don’t like Anna?” Dean asks instead.

Mike makes a non-committal sound. “Men and women don’t play by the same rules in our family. Our sisters, apart from being a great deal younger than us, are all daddy’s girls. Spoiled to high heavens and only expected to marry suitable men and be pleasant. That’s it. Anytime we, and by we I mean all my brothers, do something they aren’t supposed to, our sisters will rat us out to Father. I don’t blame them. We weren’t so thrilled when they arrived and may not have been the nicest big brothers. It didn’t help that Father is old fashioned and misogynistic. By the time our first sister arrived, we already had ingrained in us that they were beneath us and were to be indulged but not taken seriously.”

“Huh. Well if you think that, think again. Some of my fellow soldiers were women, and they were fucking badass.”

“I know. We’ve all strayed from Father’s teachings to different degrees. But it did shape our relationship to our sisters.”

“Fair enough.” Dean stops and swings Mike around to hold him. His naked chest, sweaty and hot in the blistering sun, feels good against Dean’s skin. “You know what I want to do now?”

Mike shakes his head.

“See that private compound over there? Let’s climb over the fence and fuck in the shadows by those trees,” Dean suggests and points, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Mike follows his gaze, then looks back. “We shouldn’t. We could get arrested.” There’s a muscle twitching by his eyes, his face strangely unreadable.

“That what makes it exciting. I’ll climb that fence either way. Are you in or are you out?”

“In.” Mike doesn’t hesitate for a second before he replies. His eyes are intense and excited, coaxing a stupid, _stupid_ flip flop in Dean’s belly. He’s supposed to be over Mike. He isn’t. Not by a long shot. Especially not right now.

* * *

They come out of the copse of trees, reeking of sex, when someone spots them and calls out “You! You’re not supposed to be in here! Get out or I’ll call the cops!”

Mike, rather than taking off running, heads straight for the man, expression relieved. “Sir! Sir, we need help!” He calls out while walking. Dean tags along, bemused. “Our dog ran away. We saw her wiggle under the fence over there. She’s a border terrier, about this big. Her name is Mavis. I…” The lie Mike spins is fucking amazing. He’s so convincing, that soon he’s not only convinced the man that challenged them, to help, but gotten a search party of seven people to search the grounds. One even thinks they spot Mavis before she disappears in a copse of trees towards the beach. Honestly, walking around with Mike, calling out for Mavis, a host of people helping―Dean finds it fucking hilarious. It reminds him of what Nick said about Mike not being a saint, but keeping himself clearheaded. Once they’ve parted with the helpful, worried people at the compound, Dean hooks his arm around Mike’s neck with a grin. “That was awesome! You know what would make this day even better? If we could score some weed and lay by the pool, munching whatever and shooting shit. I haven’t smoked since high school.”

This time Mike doesn’t even initiate a protest. “I’d love that. How about you go get us whatever snacks we’ll need, and I’ll go see if I can get us some ganja.”

* * *

No Mike’s no saint. They’re laying by their private pool by their bungalow, staring up at the night sky. Or Mike’s staring at the sky, and Dean’s staring at him, revelling in all the nakedness in front of him. He’s faintly sad, because Mike’s so fucking gorgeous, loving, and generous. They could have had it all if Mike hadn’t lived a double life. On the other hand, Dean has it all, if you look at it crassly. He just has it all with two men, instead of one. All it cost him are forsaking his principles, ideals, and self respect. But hey. Who needs those, right? 

Any time Dean thinks of the British cunt Mike’s engaged to, his blood boils black and toxic. It erodes the guilt about cheating, and turns it into fierce contentment about wriggling out of the constraints of being owned. Anytime Mike kisses the words “You’re mine” into his skin Dean thinks of who got to kiss there the week before. 

It’s only right. Someone else were going to marry and have children with _his_ boyfriend. “I'd make a lousy father anyway.”

“What?” Mike asks and shifts his confused gaze to Dean. 

“I said that out loud?” Dean chortles. 

Mike giggles. “You did. You want to be a dad?”

Dean laughs. He must have been quiet for ten minutes at least. No wonder Mike looks confused. Dean shakes his head and re-lights the dobie. He takes a deep drag on it and leans to seal his lips over Mike’s. When Mike opens his mouth Dean blows into it, making Mike inhale. “Not really,” Dean answers after shotgunning two hits. “Let’s face it. I'm fucking broken. I shouldn’t be around kids. How bout you? You want kids?”

“Sometimes. Though most of the time I don’t want to sacrifice my lifestyle. You ever thought about it?”

“Mh. We'd live in a two bedroom house, pool out back, big enough yard for me to be naked without neighbours making a fuss. Oh, and for Mavis to run around,” Dean adds as a joke. “I'd be a stay at home dad and our kid would curse worse than a sailor. Anytime school would do bake sales I'd have a breakdown since I couldn’t get the cookies to taste right. You'd have to go sell them with our mortified kid. You'd come back, claiming that people loved the cookies and I wouldn't believe you because you’re a lying asshole.” Dean sniggers in amusement as he talks. Mike’s eyes are red, eyelids heavy, but he looks wistful and happy. “I'd be proud of being your trophy husband. You'd show me off, secretly loving that I freak your friends out. The neighbour two houses down hates us solely because we're fags. I'd knock up his wife just because it pisses me off. I'd tell you, because it's fucking funny and we'd have a big fight about it, because you don't get that I did it as a revenge job, and had to think of you to get it up. It’s still hilarious since our neighbour don’t believe her when she confesses that I'm the daddy. He's one of those people who don't believe in bisexuality, and we’re _clearly_ fags. Do you think she'd do an abortion?” Dean takes a last drag on the dobie. Mike would have to roll a new one for them. He evidently has the skill. Dean doesn’t let Mike answer. “No, I don’t think she would. It’s a bible thumper household. They’d probably consider it murder, seeing chicks like living incubators with no rights,” he says, answering his own question.

Mike laughs out loud. He laughs so hard he curls inward and tips over towards Dean. “Holy shit, Dean. I’d love to live in your head. That was wild. And, baby, not all Christians are against abortion.”

Dean giggles about the part about Mike wanting to live in his head. He obviously has no idea what goes on in there. It’s full of death and decay on the best of days. “You believe in God, Mike?”

“Of course.”

It’s Dean’s turn to laugh. His body is loose and heavy. They’ve eaten every scrap they have, and he still wants more. But he’s too heavy to move, and Mike isn’t leaving his side. No matter. Life is good. “Then I’ve got news for you. If there is a god, he’s either evil, or don’t give a shit. All of your family religious?”

“Mhm. Every last one of us.”

_Nick too? ...Is that why you won’t introduce me? ...Is that why―_

Questions line up in Dean’s mind, but he doesn’t ask any of them. Instead he rolls to lie on his side, so they’re face to face. Mike has such a soft smile, eyes mellow and adoring. What does he see to adore so much? Dean’s _nothing_. “Hey asshole, why have we never celebrated our anniversaries? You told Anna we were here celebrating two and a half year. We shoulda. Why haven’t we?” he asks and reaches out to caress Mike’s cheek softly. 

Mike’s face goes puzzled. “You’d want that?”

“Hell yeah, I do.”

Mike’s funny when he’s doped up on weed. His facial expressions are comically exaggerated. Like now. He gasps in horror and then looks like a kicked puppy. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry, baby. It never occurred to me. I don’t really know how to do long term relationships. I’ve. This is my first long one. I apologise for not getting it right. But you got to understand, I love you so much, every day with you are celebrations to me,” he assures, contrite looking.

Dean laughs. “Suck up.”

“It’s the truth,” Mike certifies solemnly.

That would be a first. 

Dean sniggers.

Whatever.

He combs through Mike’s soft hair with his fingers and bends forward to change the subject with a lazy kiss.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and I found the gif that sums up the plot of this fic perfectly:


	31. Mavis

* * *

# Mavis

“He did _**WHAT**_?”

“He told Anna I was his boyfriend,” Dean repeats as he stops the car by a traffic light. It’s raining again. Nick had just plucked the keys to one of Mike’s cars from a key cabinet in Mike’s home office. When Mike and Dean took a car they went in Mike’s Ferrari. Dean had no idea the rest of the cars in that section of the garage were _also_ Mike’s. Who the hell needs ten cars? But lo and behold, they were. So now they rode comfortably in a Porsche Cayenne Turbo S. “And went on to tell her we were celebrating our two and a half year anniversary. Which would be a first.” 

“No, no. Go back to the beginning. Are you sure it was Anna, our sister?”

“Yeah. I've seen photos of her and he introduced her as such.” Dean accelerates the car when the lights turn green. He fucking loves driving. He’s of a mind to get all the keys, and take each and every one of those beauties out for a test spin. He has a thing for the hyper masculine. The watch Mike gave him for his birthday hasn’t come off more than a few times since he first put it on. 

“And he came out? To _her_?”

“Yeah. What’s the big deal? I thought all of you were out, but she believes Cas is dating some chick named Meg.”

“Meg's a good friend of Castiel’s, and consequently his beard to family functions that requires a date. As for being out, we are, to each other and friends. Our dad _knows_ we’re not straight, but chooses to pretend he doesn’t, unless we rub it in his face. Out of all of us, I'm the only one who's done that. Hell, I've even taken boyfriends with me to church and official get-togethers. But only if they were rich and powerful enough to keep dad off my back. Our sisters on the other hand, have no idea about the others, only me.”

“Why’s that?”

“They’re fucking backstabbing little bitches, that’s why. Dad would reward them for spying on us when we were kids and I’m sure he still rewards them for gossip. Holy fuck this is huge!” The last Nick says mostly to himself, covering his mouth and stares wide eyed out of the windshield, where the wipers are working overtime in the downpour.

“Why is it so huge?”

“Dad’s a huge bigot. There’s no doubt in my mind, that part of my disownment is because of my, I quote, _disgraceful, rampant bisexuality_ , end quote. There are several other reasons I can think of, but it’s a big part of it. I refuse to be discreet and pretend that I’m what he wants me to be. Mikey’s the perfect son in dad’s eyes. He’s never openly defied dad. Anna will without a doubt go straight to dad to tell him about you. Which makes it a huge act of defiance on Mikey’s behalf. Dean. If Mike had taken you home to meet the family, he’d have introduced you as boyfriend to his friends, Gabe, and Cas. But only as a friend to our sisters and dad. This I’m sure of. Was sure of. Until now. Fucking _hell_. If he’s defying father, and refusing to back down, he too might get disowned, or lose his job at the very least.” Nick looks absolutely gobsmacked.

“You’re such fucking shitheads, the both of you,” Dean complains and turns on the blinkers to turn down the next street. “Both of you coulda told me this from the start to let me decide for myself if I was okay with being a dirty secret. I’m fucking sick and tired of hiding. Living the greater part of my career in fear of losing my job because I like dick. It fucking sucks.”

“I’m willing to bet you complained about that, sometime in the beginning of your relationship with Mikey. If he already was as head over heels for you as he’s now, he’d be afraid to lose you, and said what he had to say to make you stay.”

“He’s not head over heels for me, or he wouldn’t be marrying someone else. And that doesn’t explain why _you_ didn’t say anything. You coulda explained it that very first day we met, instead of being cryptical about it, just going, _Welcome to my side of the family_.”

It does make some sense though, about Mikey. It doesn’t make it _right_. When you’re a couple you’re in it together. And hell, Dean maybe could’ve been persuaded to keep it down low in front of family, if Mike’s just been _fucking honest about it_. And one thing’s for fucking certain, he’d **never** agree to let Mike marry someone else and start a family as a cover. Now that ship has sailed, whatever feelings he has for Mike, his trust level for Mike is at sub zero. There’s no coming back from that.

Nick’s quiet.

Stonewalling.

Of course. Nothing new there.

“So why now, huh? Why is he suddenly obliging me?” Dean asks. He doesn’t want to start a fight, so he steps back on his demand for answers concerning Nick’s behaviour. Another driver cuts him off suddenly, making him stomp on the break. “Fuckhead!” Dean curses and gives the other driver the finger.

“I don’t know, Dean. Have you threatened to leave recently? Made new demands?”

Dean makes a dissatisfied grunt. “It’s not like it matters. He’s two years too late.”

“Fair enough. So you met Anna. Then what happened?” Nick digs up his smokes from his pocket and lights one. Dean gestures for it. Nick hands it over and lights another one for himself.

Dean goes on to tell Nick the rest of the encounter with Anna.

* * *

The car is parked in a nearby garage. Nick and Dean runs the last bit to Eli’s bar. They’re still soaked when they enter the bar, empty save for Eli. Eli looks bored out of his mind, solving crosswords. He usually has a simple goatee, but today it looks like he hasn’t shaved for a couple of days. He perks up when they enter. “Nick and Dean, come to save me from boredom,” he say and smiles at them, uncapping two beers and pouring two jägermeisters for them.

“Rain or shine, we just can’t stay away,” Dean chirps, leading the way to the bar.

Eli takes two clean hand towels from somewhere under the bar and hands them over for the two of them to dry their hair. “Then you’d be the only ones. I was thinking of closing down tonight. Ain’t making any guap with this downpour.”

Dean shrugs out of his jacket and towels himself dry wherever he can. Nick goes for the jäger first, then follows suite. “You know what, Eli? Maybe you should. Close the shop down and go out drinking with us,” Nick proposes.

“Hells yeah! Sounds like a great idea!” Dean agrees and hands back the towel. He slides up on the bar stool, body turned towards Nick.

Nick sits down on the stool beside his, facing towards him, scoots the stool closer, so his legs winds up inside the V of Dean’s legs, warm against his inner thighs. “Come on, Eli. Take a night off with us.”

“Alright.” Eli goes around the bar and to the door. He locks, flips the sign, and pulls the curtains. “It’s about time I took a day off anyway.”

* * *

Dean has no idea where Nick’s at. They’re at the fourth? Fifth bar maybe? No. This is a club, not a bar. Dean and Eli are loitering by the bar, checking out other patrons on the dance floor. There’s three different dance floors in this place. Nick’s the one who insisted they'd go here, so Dean’s pretty sure he's off dancing somewhere. Dean doesn’t mind. The place is packed with eye candy, both male and female. (And a couple of people Dean couldn't pin down as either.)

“So, Dean. I've caught you peepin’ at me a whole lot this evenin’,” Eli says suddenly. “I'll admit, you’re a handsome fella, no doubt about it, but in case there's any confusion, I don’t swing that way.” 

Dean sniggers. “No worries. I'm taken, or I mighta been disappointed. But no, that's not it. I never told you about my ex, Benny?” 

“I don’t think you have. And if you did, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember.”

“Don’t sweat it. You’d remember Benny. Hold on,” Dean says and digs up his wallet. He doesn’t have many physical photos of his lost loves, but those he have, he carries with him. He takes a picture of Benny out of the wallet and hands it over. “You being all scruffy like that makes you look like his lost twin or something. That’s why I’ve been staring.”

Eli squints at the photo, then takes up his phone to turn the flashlight on. It’s hard to see in the dim neon light of the club, but when he shines the light on the photo, he sucks in a startled breath. “ _Get outta here_!”

Dean takes a step closer so he can peer at the picture too. “I know, right? You’re different enough that I don’t normally think about how alike you are. But with that scruff you’ve got going right now, you’re so alike it’s uncanny. That’s why I keep staring. He’s been dead for a while now. But here you are, and…” Dean softens his gaze, smirks, and reaches out to run two fingers along Eli’s scruffy jawline. 

Eli seems unbothered by the touch. It isn’t meant to be flirty. It really isn’t. More wistfully nostalgic, and Eli seems to get that. But for a casual observer it might look like flirting.

So when Nick shows up out of nowhere, that probably has something to do with it.

Nick hooks his arm around Dean’s waist, puts his other one behind Dean’s head, throws a challenging look at Eli, then turns his head to kiss Dean, tipping him backwards into that pose from the famous photo of the Navy sailor kissing a nurse in 1945.

The kiss is demanding and sloppy, tongue forcing itself into Dean’s mouth like Dean hasn’t got a say in the matter. In a way, it's a bit paradoxical that it sends tendrils of electricity through him, when Nick takes him like it’s his fucking _right_. All while he resents being regarded like property. He used to be the army's property, and he used to be proud of that. Maybe it’s more a thing about being wanted and guarded. Because Nick might as well have lifted a leg and peed on him, if he was a dog, marking his territory. Dean can't help but to laugh into the kiss, at the thought of Nick guarding him against Eli. However alike he and Benny may look, they're not the same person, and the sexual spark that had been there between him and Benny, is missing with Eli.

“Just friends, huh?” Eli chuckles.

Nick straightens them up and breaks the kiss without letting go of Dean. “Quit laughin’, asshole, that was a good fucking kiss,” he says to Dean, scowling, before turning his attention to Eli. “Good friends. Best friends. Close friends. Almost like brothers,” he answers with a smirk.

Dean guffaws. “I dunno about you, babe, but I ain’t never kissed my little brother like _that_.”

“I said, _almost_ ,” Nick retorts testily, making Dean laugh again.

“Ey, it was bound to happen sooner or later,” Eli concurs and hands the photo back to Dean. Dean’s still giggling as he puts the photo back in his wallet. Nick’s arm still warm around his waist. It occurs to him then, that it’s the first time Eli’s seen them kiss. It sets off a hoard of thrilled butterflies. It’s like making it official. The rest is just semantics. They are, after all, best friends, first and foremost. 

“So I managed to score some blow, if you're interested,” Nick informs them, moving to stand behind Dean, rests his chin on Dean’s shoulder and hugs him from behind. 

“I could go for that,” Eli asserts. 

“Blow?” Dean asks. 

Nick finds it hilarious that Dean doesn’t know what that means.

* * *

Whelp. Apparently it means cocaine. So Dean’s a moron, but he’s okay with that because it makes for an awesome fucking night. All three of them end up in the penthouse, sitting in the lounge, drinking booze, playing poker, and talking. Everyone’s in a great mood until Dean goes on telling them about his vacation with Mike. “...and then I thought we were busted for sure. But _Mike_ , the sly fucker, went directly towards the guy, pretending to be distressed. He told the guy we’d lost our dog, a border terrier named Mavis, and convinced the guy to assemble a search party―”

Nick, scowling fiercely, slams his cards down on the table, making both Dean and Eli jump in startlement. “Mavis is _MY_ dog!”

“You’ve got a dog?” Dean asks.

“No!”

“You gonna have to explain, cuz I’m not following,” Eli says.

“I was going to get her when I retired. Can’t believe the fucker stole my dog!”

“You _do_ get that we’re talking about a _pretend_ dog, dontcha? We weren’t _actually_ looking for a dog?” Dean says, lips twitching in amusement while Eli sniggers.

“I know that. I’m not dumb!” Nick answers, face scrunching up in an annoyed grimace.

Both Dean and Eli laugh at him. Zero pity. Seriously. It’s a make-believe dog.

“What’s with the name, anyway? Mavis?”

Nick rolls his eyes in exasperation. “They can’t _all_ be named Sparky, now can they?”

Nick sulks when that makes Eli and Dean laugh even harder, then proceeds to sulk for another twenty minutes.

* * *

Eli opts to take a cab home despite the offer to stay the night in one of the guestrooms. Nick crawls into bed with Dean and they lie smoking a cigarette each while Dean―on Nick’s insistence―proceeds to tell Nick about the week in Hawaii. When Dean describes smoking weed by the pool, Nick makes a whiny noise, plucks Dean’s cigarette out of his hand, puts it out in the ashtray, then rolls over Dean to kiss him. What follows is the closest to lovemaking they’ve done so far. Dean’s not stupid. He gets that it’s jealousy driven. Dean had gotten something from Michael that Nick treasures and considers his, and now he’s taking something from Mike, that he thinks Michael treasures and considers to be his. But it doesn’t matter, because Nick allows Dean to be as sweet and loving in his touches as he wants to be. (He still refuses to take his shirt off, and only lets Dean touch the scarred side through the shirt. Barely.) This isn’t sex to Dean. Not when Nick lies on top of him, moving his hips in slow circles, strokes his hair gently to keep it out of his face, looks down on him with the softest, most wondrous expression. Dean’s own expression is probably a mirror image. He can’t keep the smile off his face, no matter how much he tries. It’s so fucking intimate. Every cell in his body sings in joyous celebration. How can this not be love? 

Nick loves him as a friend, he’s sure of that. But in this moment, it feels like Nick loves him the same way he does. He lets himself forget that this is just a pact of spiteful revenge. He lets his fingers and lips spell out the truth against Nick’s skin. Their mixed exhales and inhales are breaths of life. Nick’s his beacon of light in the darkness of his mind. So this night, he does his best to convey that, without spelling it out in words.

* * *


	32. A Moss Rosebud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any flower symbolism will be explained later on, when Dean gets to know what it means.

* * *

# A Moss Rosebud

They develop routines. Nick showers in the morning while Dean makes breakfast. Nick never seems to tire of homemade food and will coo and praise in delight no matter what Dean makes. After breakfast they brush their teeth and shave side by side in the big bathroom, bumping shoulders and jostling playfully. There’s something about seeing their toothbrushes side by side, and Nick’s cologne on the shelf, that _does_ things to Dean.

They go to work if there’s work to be had. If not, they do something else. Nick’s not really a homebody. The rains currently prevents outdoor activity. (Loitering in the park or going to ‘their’ spot in the woods by the lake will remain their favourite thing to do if the weather allows.) So instead Nick drags Dean to fucking museums, art galleries, botanical gardens and stuff like that. Dean would probably hate it if they didn’t do it while high. Now Nick, Nick actually seems to appreciate those visits―with or without drugs. But Dean has never seen the charm in walking around looking at paintings, sculptures, stuffed dead animals and whatnot. Yet he’s having a blast. 

Afterwards they go home and Dean makes dinner. Nick starts insisting on helping, soaking up what Dean teaches him, like a sponge. He can’t be trusted with seasoning or manning the stove, but will gladly cut vegetables, peel potatoes, and do any number of chores Dean asks him to. In these moments, Dean’s heart feels too big for his chest.

Once they’ve eaten, they either watch TV, play video games, or go out. They start any evening at Eli’s bar. After that anything goes. Seedy bars or dance clubs. They have sex fucking anywhere. Nick and Mike are the same when it comes to this, with one exception. Mike isn’t too keen on doing it in places he considers dirty, while Nick has no such qualms. When they come home they’ll shower in the big bathroom if they need to. Nick will get into the shower with him, fully or partially clothed, helping him wash. It usually leads to more sex. Either way, Nick will shoo him out of the shower to fetch clothes for him. Dean will lay the clothes on the toilet seat, then, on Nick’s request, cut the light before he leaves Nick to get naked and wash himself.

When Nick comes out they go to bed. They’ll fall asleep spooned together. Dean’s happy.

* * *

Mike’s due back tomorrow. They’ve just finished a moving gig. It’s a sunny day so they opt to go for a walk in the neighbourhood. It’s a nice, well tended suburban neighbourhood with manicured lawns and beautiful flowering gardens. Nick throws an arm over Dean’s shoulder as they walk, practically oozing contentment. He stops frequently to inspect flowers growing close to the picket fences. At one place he scowls, bends down to scrutinize a plant that doesn’t seem to be doing too well. Then he takes a piece of paper and a pen from a jacket pocket, scribbles something on the paper, and goes to drop it in the mailbox. 

“What didja write?” Dean asks when Nick comes back and puts his arm around Dean again, Dean’s own arm easily slips around his waist under the jacket.

“Just some tips on how to bring the plant back to health.”

Dean laughs. “You’re a giant nerd.”

Nick smirks. “So sue me.”

They pass a garden with a bunch of different roses in different colours and varieties. Nick spots them, smirks slyly and bends over to break of a little cluster of mini rosebuds. He hands the short stem to Dean. “For you, darling.”

Dean looks at the garden full of magnificent flowers, then down at the short stem in his hand. The buds aren’t even close to opening and it looks like they’re covered in moss. “Gee. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. A moss rosebud will get the message across, I figured.” Nick looks infinitely smug.

“Crystal clear,” Dean deadpans drily and twirls the stem between his fingers.

“I like moss roses. That particular one is called Dresden Doll, and was bred by Ralph Moore in California, 1975. It’s one of the first miniature moss roses Moore introduced to…” Nick explains, and proceeds to give a lecture about roses. 

Dean’s listening with half an ear, basking in Nick’s nerdy passion, rather than the actual info he’s getting. And fuck it. This little cluster of buds may not be much, but Dean treasures them anyway.

* * *

Dean’s in the toilet when he hears Mike coming home. He spots Nick’s toothbrush and panics. Quickly he throws it in the trashcan. The can’s lidded. Hopefully Mike won’t notice. Then he spots the cologne. Now _that_ , he will notice. The toothbrush Dean could claim was his own. He switches to new toothbrushes often enough. Dentists recommend it, right? But the cologne? No. He can’t get it to Nick’s room without Mike noticing, and ditching it in the trash…? No. If Dean throws something like that away, he’ll wonder about it.

For a moment anxiety crawls all over under his skin, making it harder to breathe. But then he gets an idea. He takes the cologne and splashes some on himself. There. Now it’s his. No need to hide what he himself owns, right?

Bolstered, he washes his hands and steps out of the bathroom.

Mike is as gorgeous as always. Once the mere sight of him would have caused butterflies and jubilant happiness. But the fiancé and the lies are like a thick, painful wall between them. Nick wants him to stay with Mike, to extract the revenge they both deserve, by playing the good boyfriend and going behind his back. Dean can do that. He can. It’s just a fucking shame it comes with the knowledge of what Mike and Dean _could_ have had. Fuck, but if it wasn’t for Mike’s lies, Dean would never have let his feelings for Nick grow. He would have tampered them down and remained faithful.

Mike runs a hand through his hair, making a mess out of it, and smiles warmly when he sees Dean. “Hey, soldier. I’ve missed you.”

“Doubt it,” Dean answers and saunters up to him. His heart hammers nervously while he slides his arms around Mike’s slim waist, still afraid he’ll be busted, even with his own lie on the tip of his tongue. Mike melts into the embrace, buries his head by his shoulder and inhales like he always does. He tenses up, and sniffs, then leans back far enough to look at Dean with wide eyes. “It’s new. You like it?” Dean asks with a lopsided smirk, all fake bluster.

“Like it? I _love_ it! You smell _amazing_ ,” Mike marvels and buries his head back in to inhale deeply again.

Dean chuckles. “Good. I hoped you would.” He relaxes, content in not getting busted. That Nick’s cologne works like fucking catnip on a cat for Mike, well, the better for him.

* * *

They don’t come into the bedroom until late evening. All fucked out and sated. They fall into bed kissing, Mike on top. Mike straddles him, reaches out to light a lamp, and spots the small rose stalk with its cluster of rosebuds, that Dean’s put in a glass of water on the nightstand. (Making Nick oddly smug.) Mike tenses. “Who gave you that?” His voice is whip crack sharp.

“What?” Dean asks in confusion.

“The moss rosebud. _Who_ , gave it, to you?” Mike’s voice is stern, measured, demanding. His eyes even more so. The man on top of him is no longer the sweet, caring cuddle bug aiming to please, that Dean’s come to know. The corporate leader, the commander that has hundreds of people scrambling to obey, has taken his place. The alpha predator that Dean’s always known is hidden underneath, sharp like a samurai sword. It’d be all kinds of hot if Dean wasn’t the subject of his displeasure. As it stands, something inside of Dean curls in on itself and flattens its ears in distress.

“A friend.”

“What friend? What’s his name?” Mike demands.

“ _Her_ ,” Dean lies.

“Her?”

“Her name is Stella,” Dean improvises, thinking of Stella Artois, the beer brand. “I drink with her sometimes.”

“You’re not into women.”

“ _Du-uh_. But I still talk to them, jackass. Walked her home the other day to keep her safe and she plucked it in her garden and gave it to me as a thanks. I thought it was cute. What’s the matter with you? I can’t have friends all of a sudden? Take a fucking chill pill,” Dean babbles, scowling in confusion.

Mike relaxes. “I’m sorry. Too much stress lately. I though…, I’m not thinking clearly. That’s all.” He bends down and kisses Dean, a physical apology for the unspoken accusation. Dean thinks Mike might be thinking real fucking clearly. He wonders why a little innocuous cluster of rosebuds gave it away. He doesn’t dwell on it though. Instead he focuses on distracting Mike from any suspicions, by kissing and caressing like his life depended on it. Nick wants him to do this, right? It’s not exactly like he suffers from it. As long as he doesn’t think about the British cunt. Or the lies. Yeah, okay, so it hurts. But he closes his eyes and thinks of Nick.

* * *


	33. Family Matters

* * *

# Family Matters

2 years, 8 month (1 year, 11 months)

“I’ve decided to search for my brother,” Dean declares after a lazy day at home. They’re lying butt naked on the marble floor in the lounge. Dean’s smoking a cigarette while his body cools and come leaks out of his ass. Mike’s lying on his side, trailing patterns in the sweat on Dean’s chest. The heavy rainfall drums against the glass wall, distorting the view.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?” Dean asks, looking at the high ceiling and blowing out three smoke rings, each inside the last.

“You’ve gone through so much pain and hurt in your life, soldier. Your brother wants nothing to do with you, or he’d have found you by now. It’ll just be another hurt to carry, if you find him, and he rejects you. Dean. You don’t need him. You’ve got me.”

Dean turns his head and studies Mike’s concerned face. He looks so damned earnest. He just doesn’t want his lies uncovered, Dean knows that. But it looks like he really means it. “That’s it? You don’t want me to be hurt emotionally, and that’s why you don’t want me to find him?”

“Yes. You deserve so much better.”

Mike’s the best fucking liar in the world. If Dean hadn’t seen the picture of Sam with Mike in the background, he would have believed it. Every little remnant of trust between them is dead.

* * *

It takes a while before Dean brings it up with Nick. It’s the fact that they’re in the same fucking spot on the floor, with rain pattering on the windows, that prompts Dean’s memory. There’s a growing discontent in Dean’s chest. He wants more than this pretense. He wants to plug the holes in his bleeding chest. The weeks with Nick are great. They squabble and bicker, by all means. But that isn't a bad thing in Dean’s eyes, since they don’t _really_ fight. And moments like this makes up for it. They’ve both taken enough painkillers to get high and Nick’s doing that thing where he talks without thinking. 

Maybe it’s because of the dreams he has about Sam sometimes, maybe it's because he had one in the army, or maybe it’s the constant reminder that both Mike and Nick, in their own way, denies him one. But Dean’s getting increasingly obsessed with family. He wants one. If he can't have his own, he wants to be part of somebody else’s. 

“This one,” Nick says, lying on his side facing Dean who’s on his back, and puts a finger on Dean’s cheek. “Is constant. As well as this one, and this, and this, and this…” his finger moves from cheek, to forehead, to the bridge of his nose. “But you have one here, and here, and here, that comes back as soon as it's sunny. And there are these that require lots of sun to emerge,” he explains with a mellow voice full of fascinated affection as he points on different spots in Dean’s face. 

“Sun? Pfft. They’re angel kisses. You know, Lucifer? _Michael_?” Dean teases. 

Nick blinks down at him while he processes. Dean almost expects him to get pissy, hearing his other name, but instead Nick bends down and starts peppring a myriad of butterfly kisses on his face, making him laugh. Nick sure loves freckles. Dean thinks he must love Dean’s in particular, to have memorised them so well.

He hates clothes. Nick’s clothes specifically. They never come off. Fuck, but that's the only upside of Mike’s weeks. Nudity. He wants to have Nick’s nudity, even with the Freddie Kruger skin Dean’s gotten tiny glimpses of when they fuck. 

Every time Mike’s left, Nick’s shown up within an hour and he wants a full update of what Dean and Mike’s been up to. Dean’s given up on trying to withhold the information, despite how it causes both ire and annoyance in Nick. But the first thing he does is fuck Dean. And that first fuck is aggressive in its nature, and includes a bite mark somewhere on Dean’s shoulders or neck. Oh and dirty talk. Nick’s not huge on talking while he fucks. He prefers letting Dean’s words wash over him. But that first fuck, after they’ve been apart? It’s all Nick running his mouth. ‘You’re _my_ little bitch.’, ‘Gonna fill that belly up with _my_ babies.’, and all manners of possessive crap, reestablishing his claim. It’s violently possessive, and Dean gets hard just thinking about it while he waits for Nick to arrive. Only, it doesn't make fucking _sense_. Nick’s insisting to pimp Dean out to Mike every third week, resisting Dean’s wish to leave Mike. It is confusing. The signals Dean’s getting are conflicting. He simply doesn’t understand it, and it makes Dean discontent. 

Not right now though. Not when Nick’s being a giant dork, trying to kiss more freckles into being. Nick lifts his head to scrutinize his handiwork. His shoulders sag and he pouts. “Damn. It didn’t work.”

Dean laughs, Nick sniggering along silently. “You know it’s unfair. I always have my freckles, but you _never_ wear your glasses.”

“They’re uncomfortable. They make marks on the bridge of my nose, where they itch. They fog up if it’s cold outside, or warm outside, or if I sweat. They keep gliding down so I have to push them up again―” 

“But you’re _so_ hot in them!” Dean interrupts. “I jerk off to the thought of you wearing them.”

“You do?”

“Hell yeah, I do.”

Nick hums. “I suppose I can wear them once in awhile for you.”

“Yes! _Result_ ,” Dean exclaims with a fist pump. They both chortle, because they’re fucking idiots.

Nick flips over to lay on his back, staring at the ceiling with a dopey smile. “You know… this floor isn’t very comfortable.”

“That’s because it’s stone.”

“Then why are we lying on it?”

“Because we’re hard men.”

That triggers another bout of stupid laughter. None of them move.

“I’ve decided to go see Sam,” Dean tells Nick.

“Don’t do that.”

“What? Why not?” Dean asks, scowling at the ceiling.

“You’ll get hurt. You have dealt with enough douchebags in your life. Sam’s an ass. He ain’t gonna want anything to do with you. Leave it be. You don't need him. You've got me.”

Dean’s scowl grows fiercer. “Hey, fuck you! What am I? A fragile fucking princess? I'm _going_ to go to him. And neither you or your lying sonnova bitch brother can stop me.”

Nick purses his lips and turns to look at Dean thoughtfully. “Fair enough. When it's time, I'll go with you.”

Dean’s ire die as fast as it came. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.”

“Mh. Besides, someone’s got to destroy the fucker for hurting you, afterwards.”

Dean chuckles and reaches for Nick’s hand on the floor. Their fingers interlace. Nick’s not big on hand holding, but now he allows it. Dean smirks at him and turns his head to watch the ceiling again. They lie in silence for several minutes, lost in their own thoughts, holding hands with heads pillowed on their other hand. Then Dean speaks. “What the hell is a border terrier anyway? Is it, like, some Mexican dog that got into the country illegally?”

Nick turns his head and blinks at him in confusion for a beat. Then the fucker guffaws. Nick laughs so loud and so long he curls in on himself, gasping futily for air. Dean tries to make him shut up, failing, because it’s hard to make someone stop laughing when you yourself laugh.

Nick’s a dick.

Dean loves him.

* * *


	34. Another Lion

* * *

# Another Lion

2 years, 10 month (2 year, 1 month)

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

They’re in a roadside dive bar. They still go to these, even now when they live in the city centre. The atmosphere here suits them.

As months gone by, Dean’s kinda forgot that this is just a revenge deal―that they’re partners, not _boyfriends_. Not completely of course. Every third week when Nick pawns him off on Mike, he’s reminded. But the weeks when it’s him and Nick, it’s been just them. They talk to other people. They’re social. But it’s still been _them_. Nick’s not shown any interest in fucking anyone else and Dean sure as hell hasn’t either. Dean doesn’t probe too hard when it comes to what Nick does the week they’re apart. He has no right to dictate what Nick does, since they’re not _together_ , but since he doesn’t see it he goes on happily pretending it’s just them.

Until today.

They’re both real fucking wasted. Dean’s blood is a sludge of black poison. Nick’s got his arm around the waist of one woman, and his tongue stuck down the throat of another. Dean’s fucking pissed off. If he wasn’t, he’d curl into a ball and cry, feeling ultimately useless and unwanted. He’s not cut out for watching the man he loves mack on other people. He envisions grabbing both skanks by the hair, dragging them outside, and blow their fucking brains out. “Oy, Nick! Can I talk to you for a second?”

Nick whispers something to the women, making them giggle, then frees himself from the bitches and saunters over to Dean by the pool table. “What’s up?”

“The hell are you doin’?”

“Ey. Threesome, baby. Those pussies are just waiting to be pounded. I'll be eating double clam chowder tonight.” Nick wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at Dean with a shiteating grin, like he’s expecting a motherfucking high five. 

“You’re serious?” Dean wants to break his face. 

“It’s not everyday you find two bitches willing to suck your lollipop. I've got priorities.” Nick winks at him, turns his head and winks at the girls too. He seems completely oblivious to Dean’s disapproval. Or he just doesn’t care. Dean might gag. 

If they'd been guys, Dean would have fought them. But he’s got it in his backbone that you don’t hit women in anything but self-defense. Shoot them, maybe. But he's unarmed and the British cunt may deserve that, but these two bitches don't. This is on Nick. Dean can't compete with a threesome. He’s never had one. He would have _liked_ to. Except he prefers the intimacy of a monogamous, serious relationship, and the only times the opportunity has arisen, it’s been a third party offering himself to Dean and his boyfriend. That isn't an option for Dean. He’s much to jealous to share. It would require equally strong feelings for both partners, and Dean can't imagine that ever happening. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, man. Go _prioritise_.” 

Nick fails to pick up on the sarcasm. He gives Dean a drunken thumbs up, winks conspiratorially, and goes back to the waiting ladies. For the first time ever, Dean finds himself wishing Nick couldn’t get it up so easily when drunk. Drunk impotence is common enough. But neither Nick or Dean are the slightest bit hampered while intoxicated. 

“You playing another round or what?” one of the guys he'd been playing pool with, asks. Dean wants to stab the pool cue through his fucking heart.

He drains the last of his beer. “Nah, man. I'm good. Gonna hit the John,” he answers then turns to walk away. He can’t stand seeing Nick with the women, knowing they'll get Nick for the night, soiling _his_ man. There’s violence brewing hot and hateful under his skin. He should go home. No. His gun is there. If Nick brings the skanks there, Dean will fucking kill them. There’s a motel within walking distance. He should go there or this night ain't gonna end well for someone. 

On his way to the exit, just after he’s turned the corner to the coatroom, he bumps into someone. “Hey, watch it, asshole!” he snipes and gives the offending party a shove. That he’s the one who didn't watch where he's going, has no bearing on his behaviour. 

“You watch it, princess,” the man says. He’s huge. 6 feet and 6 inches at least, maybe taller. Built like a brick wall, crew cut, and with the flat, cold look in his eyes that both Dean and Nick share―the jaded look of someone who's seen too much violence up close. He’s closer to Nick’s age than Dean’s, older, probably, judging by the grey at his temples and the crows feet by his eyes. His features are strong and hard, with a nose that might have been straight once, but is now adorned with both a scar and a bump from being broken in the past. 

“ _Princess_? You got a problem with faggots like me, pal?” Dean provokes, blood boiling, wanting a fight - _needing_ a fight. 

There’s a flash of surprise in the giant's face. “I do when they give me _that_ attitude.”

“Oh yeah? Then how do you like this for an attitude?” Dean snaps and takes a swing. He punches hard. Hard enough that the impact jars him and sends laces of pain through his arm. He hits the giant on the cheekbone. It’s a solid fucking hit.

The giant barely staggers.

“ _Sonnova―_ ” that’s all Dean gets out before he’s crashing through the open door, tumbling onto the dirty tarmac outside. The giant is on him before he can process, lifting him up by his shirt and throwing him backwards. This time he’s lucky, turning his landing into an ungracious backward roll, landing him on his feet, facing the advancing giant. He’s bruised but undeterred, too angry to give a shit about his odds. 

Dean’s a good fighter. One of his drill sergeants had once likened him to a terrier―vicious and tenacious. But as he lands several good punches and kicks, he realises the giant's fucking toying with him, barely jarred. He mostly deflects, and when he hits he pulls his punches and uses the palm of his hand, sending Dean flying every time. The giant _could_ have been wearing a condescending smirk and look mildly amused, but he isn’t. His gaze is sharp and focused on Dean’s every move, which normally would tell Dean that he’s in deep shit and should leg it under circumstances like this. _He_ sure as hell ain’t pulling any punches, and all he manages is to bruise the fucker. But he’s drunk as fuck, which isn’t doing him any favours either in the department of clear thinking nor speed and technique. 

The giant grabs his foot as he kicks, twists, and Dean loses his balance, flipping over, following the motion not to break his ankle. He lands with a heavy thud, teeth clicking together hard, as he barely manages to catch himself. The giant is quickly on him, subduing him by putting a knee between his shoulder blades, grabbing his wrists, and twisting them up behind his back. He can’t move and he can’t fucking breathe. “You done yet, baby doll? ‘Cause if you ain’t, you’re gonna end up in a hospital. You pack a mean punch and I’m fresh out of patience.”

Dean would laugh if he had enough air for it. The giant doesn’t even sound sarcastic when he says ‘mean punch’, yet he’s been as good as unbothered by them. Dean tries to struggle, only resulting in his arms being twisted higher. If he keeps struggling they’ll rip right out of their sockets. The giant is putting all his weight on top of him and he can only suck tiny short gasps of breath. “Fuh… you,” he manages to reply.

The giant grunts, shifts. Dean sees him turn his head towards the entrance of the bar. “What are you all gawking at? Fuck off, or I’ll kick your asses next!” Dean can’t see it, his head is facing the wrong direction, but he hears people scrambling and the door shutting. The giant focuses on Dean again, leaning down to get closer. “Hey, come on, princess. Quit this. Instead, let me buy you a drink, and talk… or something.”

“Oh..soeh.. thih..?” Dean gasps in agonised confusion. 

The weight on his back shift, lightens, allows for deeper breaths, even if his arms remains twisted up behind him, firmly locked in place. “I spotted you by the pool tables the moment I walked in, kitten. You’re gorgeous. I thought you were straight or I would have put the moves on you. It'd be a shame to bust that beautiful face of yours. Especially now I know it's paired with the fierce temper of an alley cat. So what do you say, kitten? Stop fighting and let me buy you a drink?”

_Oh._

Dean still has the betrayal of Nick brewing under the surface. Discarded for four boobs and two pussies. Trash, trash, trash. It’s not Nick’s fault that Dean keeps reading too much into it. Sure, Nick's constantly giving double signals. But still. “Oy, I'm all for spending our testosterone on something more pleasant, but I ain’t going back in there.” He doesn’t want to see Nick with the cunts. But fuck or fight, it’s all the same to him.

“Let’s go for a walk then,” the giant suggests.

“‘Kay,” Dean agrees. He’s promptly released. The giant rises and quickly takes two strides away from him, facing him, getting himself to a safe distance.

Dean twists around and sits up, draws up his knees. He doesn’t get up straight away. Instead he rolls his shoulders to soften the ache in his joints from being twisted so high up his back. He scrutinizes the giant guardedly. It could be a trap. Maybe he just wants to get Dean away from witnesses and break his neck. But, no. _Dean’s_ the one to decline witnesses. He realises that the giant's probably asking himself the very same question about Dean. Dean relaxes a bit. He lets his knees fall to the sides, less ready to spring to his feet, opening himself up to one hell of a kick to the groin, should the giant wish to be an ass. Fights are rarely this polite. Dean’s mouth tastes of blood after biting the inside of his cheek. His body aches in several places, mostly from impacting with the ground. His palms, elbows, and knees are sore and have scrape marks from the tarmac.

His pulse is still racing and his breath winded. He takes his dog tags and adjusts them to hang inside his shirt, watching the giant track the movement. Then he digs his cigarettes from his pocket, taps two out, puts one behind his ear and lights the other one. He takes a deep breath of smoke and blows a smoke ring on the exhale. “Dean. My name's Dean,” he offers. 

“Jason. But everyone calls me Big Jay.”

Dean huffs in amusement. “That seems a bit redundant. Unless they’re talking about…” his eyes flick to Jay’s crotch.

Jay’s lips twitch into a sly smirk. “My ego…?” he quips and lifts an eyebrow. Dean chuckles and Jay relaxes a notch. He steps closer and holds out his arm to Dean, in an offer to help him up. Dean pinches his cigarette between his lips and grabs Jay’s wrist. The fucker is _strong_. He pulls Dean up with barely any help. “So how about that walk, doll face?” Jay asks while Dean dusts himself off. Dean looks up at him. Jay’s eyes are startling green in the fading light.

 

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Another lion.

* * *


	35. Fidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Dangerous levels of jealousy.  
>  Also, as unhealthy as this chapter is, it has good consequences.

* * *

# Fidelity

2 years, 10 month (2 year, 1 month)

Dean doesn’t mind that Jay calls him kitten, princess, baby doll, and doll face. He doesn’t mind that Jay refers to his hole as ‘pussy’. He’s not one to kink shame. Jay is big and strong and can lift him like it’s nobody’s business. Jay’s hands are huge. He’s a good fuck. The loathing Dean’s come to expect to feel, for anyone that’s attracted to him that isn’t Nick, doesn’t come. He lets Jay top.

They're currently sitting on the hood of Jay’s truck. It’s parked in an abandoned lot a bit away from the roadside inn. They can see both the highway and the inn through the trees of the forest surrounding them. They’re talking, watching the stars now that the sun has gone to bed and been replaced by a tiny sliver of the moon. Sex was great, but Jay had wanted him to stick around afterwards, to get to know him.

Jay claims to be a businessman. Import and distribution. Hah. Yeah, right. Dean’s not born yesterday. The sly gleam in Jay’s eyes when he says it, paired with his fighting skills and jaded look, tells Dean he's a criminal. Dean doesn’t give a fuck. 

Dean talks too.

“...went and got engaged behind my back. I had to go and read about it in a fucking gossip magazine.”

“So why are you still with him?”

Dean shrugs and looks at his lap. He reaches out and pokes a finger into the hole in his pants, where it had torn over the knee in the fight. “I dunno, man. I'm owned and I don't know how not to be. I hate being property. But…” He shrugs again. 

“Do you really hate it? Or do you hate being _mistreated_ property?” Jay asks, making Dean look at him. “Baby doll, to me you seem to be a strong, capable, intelligent man who deserves to be respected as such, despite the reckless, suicidal streak you displayed in continuing your attack on me. I'm thinking, maybe you wouldn’t mind being property if your owner treated you as their most valued possession, rather than a disposable?”

Dean regards him silently while he thinks this over. Maybe Jay’s right. To an extent. He snorts and smirks lopsidedly. “Why? Are you interested in owning me?” he jokes. 

Jay doesn’t laugh. “I don’t do this often, princess. I'm not really into impersonal hookups. I'm more of a one man's man, if you know what I mean. But I have several requirements to date someone. I need them to be fierce, smart, loyal, handy with the steel, _and_ attractive. It narrows the pickings down. So when I do find someone that fits, I don’t even look at other guys.” Jay lets his gaze wander down and up over Dean’s torso, then catching on his lips before settling on his eyes. “I want to take you home and keep you, kitten. I promise I'll never fuck around or give you a reason to want to leave me. There are reasons why you might want to leave, but they have nothing to do with how _I_ will treat you.”

Dean believes him. “What? You mean like cops and business rivals?” Once Dean wouldn’t even considered it. Jay might not have said so in words, but he’s a criminal. Importing drugs or weapons perhaps. Once upon a time Dean fancied himself one of the good guys, a protector, with morals. But that was before. Another life, another time. Before he started hating the world and its inhabitants. Before he discovered the salvation drugs offer. Back when he still held value. Now he doesn’t care one way or another. The cops are no friends of his. 

Jay sniggers and lifts his eyebrows in a slight gesture of agreement. 

Jay’s fairly good looking. More so when he smiles. He’s got dimples and Dean likes the way his skin crinkles around his eyes. He’s got nice, even teeth. Not a show stopper, but attractive all the same. He doesn’t make Dean’s heart skip a beat like Nick does, but that might come with time. It’s not a bad offer. “You’ve got family?”

“A sister and two nieces.”

“If I go out with you, can I meet them?”

“Of course. Maya will demand it.”

It’s a good offer indeed. Fuck Mike. And Nick’s not interested in a committed relationship of the kind Dean wants from him, or he wouldn’t have chosen two skanks instead. Plus, if Jay really does work with import and distribution of fucking drugs, there'd be a job, a purpose, for an ex military like Dean. And Jay would probably know someone who peddles painkillers. It’s the whole package―sex, fidelity, family, and a purpose. 

He'd be needed.

Jay studies him while he thinks. It’s hard to tell what Jay sees in his face, but he gets a pleased glint in his eyes. Suddenly Dean wishes he had a cigarette in his hand. “I want to belong _with_ someone, not _to_ someone,” he tells Jay, not sure where the nerves come from. 

“When you're treated with respect, you won’t notice the difference.”

There’s something about that statement…

Dean’s suddenly reminded of the song Hotel California, or more specifically, a line in it - ‘ _You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave._ ’

And yet…

It’s a good offer in Dean’s book.

He leans in to kiss Jay, who meets him halfway. A hand, big as a saucer, cups his cheek tenderly. He might develop a size kink that has nothing to do with dicks.

“ _Get your hands off of him!_ ”

The voice startles both Dean and Jay, making them look up to find Nick standing a bit away on the lot. His mouth is a thin line, his eyes cast in shadow and his chin lowered. His stance threatening and battle ready. 

“The boyfriend?” Jay asks Dean without taking his eyes off of Nick. 

“No,” Dean answers at the same time as Nick says “Yes.”

“My boyfriend's brother,” Dean clarifies to Jay, then to Nick he goes on annoyedly “Dude, aren’t you supposed to be off fucking two bitches? The fuck are you doing here?” 

“Getting my priorities straight,” Nick answers, teeth gritted. His eyes can’t be seen in the deep shadows of his brow.

Dean’s ticked off. Jay seems like a good guy (kinda). Someone who can offer him what he wants. Now Nick decided that Dean can't have that, but _Nick’s_ allowed to do whateverfuck he pleases. That just ain’t right. 

“Get your ass over here, Dean. We’re leaving,” Nick commands.

“No. Fuck off!”

“You heard the man, fuck off,” Jay agrees.

“He’s mine, and I’m not leaving here without him,” Nick challenges.

“You shouldn’t have let him out of your sight then. He’s mine now,” Jay says and slips off the hood to stand in front of Dean, stretching to his full height and squaring himself, ready for battle.

Dean’s stomach does a little flip flop. He knows a thing or two about lions. Real lions. The females hunt food, and there are several of them in a pride. The pride has an adult male (sometimes two or even three brothers, but only one with mating rights, even if the lower ranking males sneak in a fuck whenever they can.) that patrols the territory and defends it against intruding males. If a male wants to take over a pride, the males fight. Dean gets this absurd feeling that he’s the lioness and two lions are about to fight for him. The thought excites him. (And lionesses are _awesome_ , so he doesn't mind the likeness. Lion like lion, right?) He’s worth fighting for. The idea might be primal and juvenile, but it still appeals to him.

Nick grunts. “I think not.” He takes a few stalking steps forward and to the side, Jay turning along with him not to bare his flank. Dean’s pulse starts to race. It’s going to happen. They’re going to fucking fight over him. It’s too fucking dark. The moon is a mere sliver, and the only light offered comes from the yellow streetlights over the highway, filtered through the trees to cast long inky black shadows. Nick’s going to get his ass handed to him. Jay’s both a good fighter, huge, and strong. If only he could warn Nick somehow, and make him back off…

Only, he kinda doesn’t want to. Nick had made out with, and planned to fuck, two chicks right before Dean’s eyes. He deserves a punishment for that. “Don’t hurt him too bad,” he urges Jay.

“I won’t.”  
“I won’t.”

The both of them answer at the same time. Jay chuckles darkly at Nick thinking he stands a chance. It’s triggers Nick to react. He sidesteps into one of the black shadows cast by a tree, rendering himself practically invisible, then darts in a charge. Jay deflects a blow, swings a punch that Nick ducks under, and takes a hit somewhere, hard enough to grunt and stumble to the side, right into the dark shadow. Honestly, Dean can’t see most of what goes on. He manages to gather that Jay tries to keep Nick in the light and that Nick makes use of the dark, and that both of them lands some pretty harsh hits. It’s easy to see when Nick gets hit, because the force sends him flying just as it had Dean. Jay on the other hand… 

It seems like Nick has better luck than Dean had. Both fighters are silent. No taunts nor jeers, just the sound of scuffling, thuds, grunts, ouffs, and harsh breathing.

It takes minutes. And as fights go―the real kind, not controlled by rules and referees―it’s a long one, mostly unseen by Dean. He’s sitting, tense and nervous, unable to join in because he doesn’t know how it’s fucking going. Not until Jay comes staggering, falling backwards, hitting the hood of the car with the back of his head and sliding down in a sitting position on the ground. His eyes are open, but he’s out. His face is a mess. Busted lip, an eye swelling shut, black blood from nose, lip, and temple, glistening in the meager, yellowish light. And those are just the injuries that can be seen. Jay’s fucking K.O’d.

Nick steps into the light, focused on Jay. His eyes are still cast in shadows, black hollows under a deep scowl, head lowered, stance squared and intent. His face is just as messed up, covered in black smudges that must be blood, clothes torn in places. He advances on Jay, face twisting into a hateful grimace, and lifts his leg, drawing it back for full leverage.

Dean kicks out without second thought, hitting Nick in the chest, sending him backwards. His heart’s in his throat. Nick’s kick, if he’d landed it, was meant to kill while Jay’s still too dazed to defend himself, aimed at head or throat. Dean just knows it was. “ _Enough_! You win. Stand down, I’m coming with you,” Dean says urgently and slides down from the hood. Nick emerges from the shadows again, grabs Dean by the wrist and forcefully drags him away, over the lot and into the woods. Dean can do nothing but stumble along, fear coursing through his veins with the realisation that Nick fucking won. He took out the giant in minutes, like Dean fucking couldn’t. And Nick was as drunk as Dean when Dean left him in the inn.

The woods are pitch black, and the only thing preventing Dean from falling as he’s being dragged along, is Nick’s vice grip on him.

Jesus fucking Christ!

What was it Nick said about his army days? ‘ _I’m good at things I have no business taking pride in being good at._ ’ That statement certainly made more sense now.

Dean’s been trained by the army too by all means, but he was, and always will be, an engineer at heart. Nick’s special skills were of another kind entirely. 

He doesn’t know how long they stumble through the darkness (probably not as long as it feels) before they emerge behind an industrial area. Nick stops in the lamplight behind a big warehouse, and turns around. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Are you my boyfriend?” Dean snipes, hiding his fear of Nick behind a scowl.

“No.”

“Then why the fuck do you think it’s any of your God damned business?”

Nick gets all up in his face, brows drawn down and lips a thin line. The blood on his face has coagulated, reddish black smears by his lips, from his nose, and by his cheekbone. The lines of his body are tense, ready to spring. “I _told_ you, to _quit_ , fucking around!”

“Oh yeah? Whatcha gonna do about it? Beat me up again, like you promised not to? Goes to show how much your word is worth,” Dean challenges and gives Nick a shove.

Provoke the beast. Good thinking there, pal.

Nick’s fists clenches, lips compressing even more. His eyes, black, in the darkness, catches the light to gleam dangerously.

“I don’t care what you do the weeks we’re apart, Nick.” Lies. All lies. “But if you’re gonna fuck around on my weeks, then I sure as hell will too.”

“They were just pussies!”

“And what am I? I ain’t some goddamn fuck toy, Nick! I don’t fucking _like_ to share. You want me to be faithful to you, you give me a fucking reason to!” Spiteful, Dean spits right in Nick’s face. He can see both Nick’s face and eyes darken with anger as Nick dries the spit off with a hand. “Jay was fucking boyfriend material, Nick. A good fuck to boot. You think I’m gonna pass up on a guy like that, while you get to cavort around with any sluts offering themselves to you? Fuck no. You wanna fuck around, go ahead. But don’t think for a minute that you’ve got a right to tell me what I can and cannot do, unless you’re fucking me exclusively!”

“A good fuck, huh? You fucked him?” Nick asks, deceptively calm.

“No. I let him fuck me. He’s a fucking lion. I’d let him bend me over any time. As long as you don’t give me a reason not to.” Jay had called him suicidal. He’s not far off the target.

And still, he’s surprised by the sweeping kick taking him in the bend of his knees, felling him like a tree. He lands on his side, reopening the scrapes on the heel of his hand. Another shoving kick rolls him to his stomach. He’s expecting to get the shit kicked out of him again, but doesn’t make a move to protect himself or get up. Instead of kicking him, Nick straddles his legs, grabs the hem of his pants and jerks hard, pulling them down. Dean looks over his shoulder. Nick’s pissed off and determined, undoing his belt with jerky movements. “Did he come in you? Did he fill you up?” 

“We used a condom,” Dean replies and turns his head forward. Saying no or fighting what's about to happen is the furthest thing from his mind. But this is going to hurt like a bitch. He’s lucky if Nick even bothers using― 

―scratch that. He hears the familiar sound of a packet of lube being opened, putting his fear to a rest. It will still hurt. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, trying to relax as much as possible. If he hadn’t had sex recently this would be worse. Wet and cold fingers smear lube over his hole. He flinches, but relaxes again, trying to pretend he’s not lying on cold, dirty tarmac (and something sticky to his left, that smells rotten). He can hear Nick open his belt and zip down. Nick’s lays down, holding himself up on one arm, and start pressing in. Dean can feel Nick’s hand holding the dick, warm against his ass cheeks. He’s going in too fast, and Dean can’t relax fast enough. He yelps a little ‘ _Aiee_ ’, back arching upward. Nick promptly pushes him down again. Dean takes short, chipped breaths, breaking out in sweat, squeezing his eyes shut hard, trying to ignore the pain. He reminds himself that a lion’s penis is barbed. This is a punishment. It’s supposed to hurt. He can take it.

Nick’s still for a little while after bottoming out. Dean isn’t really aware. He’s placed himself where he’d go when his dad decided to punish him with a lashing rather than a beating. 

It’s over fairly quickly. This wasn’t sex, it was an act of dominance. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but his ass throbs and feels hot around Nick’s softening dick. Nick’s a blanket of comfort on top of him. One of Nick’s arms has come around to cushion his head for comfort. “Am I too heavy?” he asks without any ire left in his voice.

“No,” Dean answers. 

“I don’t want you to fuck other guys.”

“I kept faithful to Mike until I saw him with someone else. Why’d you think you’d be any different?”

“They were just pussies. They didn’t mean a thing.”

“And yet you chose them over me. I deserve to be a first choice.”

Nick’s quiet for a while, winded breath calming down, warm and comforting. It may be fucked up that this feels comforting, considering what just went down, but it does. Nick’s arms tighten around him. “If you’d just―”

“No. _You_! This is on you. I don’t care how fucking tanked you are. You make your fucking choices and they are on you. Fuck this. You choose me, or nothing. You wanna fuck random pussies, go ahead. I ain’t gonna stop you. But I’m a fucking first choice! If I ain’t yours, then we can just stop fucking around altogether or it’ll ruin our friendship.” Dean has no idea where this came from. This anger. They’d made no promises. They aren’t boyfriends. Sure, they’d been acting like it, and Dean fucking loves Nick to bits. This is an empty threat. He could never enforce it. He’d be the first to break if they removed the sex and the cuddling. He _needs_ the intimacy and physicality with Nick.

“I don’t want you to fuck other guys.”

“Those are my terms,” Dean persists.

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What about Mike?”

“What about him?”

Dean refrains from laughing. Mike, apparently, isn’t another guy to Nick. Maybe he thinks of them as a single unit still. Dean has no idea. He’ll never understand the weird, double signals Nick’s giving. “Nothing.”

* * *


	36. Persona Non Grata

* * *

# Persona Non Grata

3 years, 1 month (2 year, 4 month)

 

“It’s time. I’m gonna go find Sam.”

Nick blinks blearily at him as Dean throws his duffel bag onto the bed and starts packing it. “Wzzt?”

They’ve had maybe three hours of sleep. Dean’s still groggy too. “I said, I’m leaving to find Sam today,” Dean repeats, a cigarette pinched between his lips. “And get a haircut,” he adds as his hair falls into his face and he has to stroke it out of his face. Disgruntled, he picks up a rubber band from the nightstand and makes a pony tail. 

Nick makes a face in dissatisfaction and sits up. “Why’d you always have to cut it off when it gets long enough to do something with?” he whines. Nick’s been protesting more and more loudly every time he’d cut it, and all he’s done is gotten it trimmed down to a less girly length.

“Dude. It’s long enough to braid for fuck sake.”

Nick tilts his head and squints at him. “Can I?”

“Huh? Come again, say what now?”

“Braid it? Can I? If you’re cutting it off anyway, you can at least be a bro and let me play with it for a bit.”

“No way. Nu-uh. Ain’t gonna happen.”

So that’s how he finds himself, a few minutes later, sitting on the thick rug by the bed, situated between Nick’s legs, while Nick combs through his hair (with some difficulty. Split ends and all.) and proceeds to braid it while humming under his breath, oozing contentment. It’s nice. “It feels like you actually know what you’re doing,” Dean observes.

“Mmmh-hm. I have three sisters. It came with perks.”

“ _Perks_?”

“Hey, I enjoy doing this, okay?”

“Heh. And here I thought _I_ was the fag out of us,” Dean chuckles and is promptly reprimanded with a stinging slap on his shoulder. 

“There’s nothing inherently gay about styling hair. Don't be an ass. There. All done. Go look in the mirror and tell me what you think.”

Still chuckling, Dean gets to his feet and goes to look in the big mirror Mike always ties his tie by. He’s startled by how good it looks. It’s like he’s got short hair in an orderly hairstyle, the illusion dispelled only by the small man bun at the back. He whistles. “Dude. This ain’t no ordinary braid.”

“I made a French fishtail braid.”

“Yeah, that doesn't mean shit to me, but it looks pretty awesome,” Dean admits. He can’t be expected to know different names for different braids. He goes to the walk in closet and opens the door, angling the mirror on the inside of the door so that he can see his back reflected in the other mirror. “Pretty damn awesome,” he repeats. 

“See. You don’t have to cut it.” Nick sounds so hopefully that Dean has to laugh. 

“Yeah, no. It’s coming off. But I'll let you braid it again when it's long enough.”

Nick flops back down on the bed and pouts.

“Don’t worry, I'll keep it long enough for you to hold onto.”

Nick just grunts noncommittally in response. 

“So you're gonna pack, or what? We're leaving after breakfast.”

Nick sits up again. “There isn’t enough time. Mikey will be home in―”

“I’m going. With or without you. I’ll write him a note.” Dean won’t budge on this. Honestly, it’s the fact that Mike will be home in two days that has him wanting to get the hell out of Dodge. After the Jay incident, Nick and he has been more like boyfriends than ever, and the way Nick would just leave before Mike came, expecting Dean to roll over for the man who broke his heart, is driving him insane. Besides, what’s the point of vengeance if Mike never gets to know? Nick’s resisting that. He’ll never leave a bite mark that won’t have time to fade for an instance. Nick _wants_ him to stay with Mike and it makes NO fucking sense, especially considering how jealously Nick guards him after the Jay incident. Maybe he just wants a week off to fuck random chicks or something. And Mike, Mike is trying very hard to make it work. He’s handed over his new travel schedule, he calls a couple of times a week, he’s taken Dean to meet two of his friends that came to town, scared shitless of doing so. They’ve met up Anna for lunch once, and Mike said Gabe may probably drop in for a visit this year, and he wants to introduce them. And their three year anniversary was spectacular from the moment Mike woke him up, to the moment they fell asleep. But he’s still lying, because Dean reads every Gold Crusted magazine, and Mike is still seen in mingle pictures with the British cunt. Dean can’t think of a motive strong enough, for him to accept Mike’s biggest lie, and the upholding of it.

It’s also disturbingly unnerving, that Mike and Nick shares some traits and ways of thinking. It was less obvious before he lived together with Nick. Most unnerving is how they both seem to be somnophiliacs. They can’t seem to keep their hands off of him when he’s asleep, which is all very nice except when you have to guard your tongue not to say the wrong name. Dean can’t stand it for very much longer, or this double life will break him apart, and that’s why he’s timing his quest just before Mike’s due home. He needs a break. (Maybe forever.)

“Alright, alright,” Nick mutters and reaches for his cigarettes on the night stand. “I’ll pack in a moment.”

Satisfied that he doesn’t have to take a break from both the brothers, Dean brings the duffel bag to the bathroom to shave, brush his teeth, and pack his toiletries. He discovers that his after shave is empty, and uses Mike’s instead. He packs it. Mike can buy a new one.

When he comes back, Nick’s all packed and ready to go, except for grabbing his own toiletries and brushing his teeth. “Dude. I said _after_ breakfast.”

“I packed it, darling. We’ll eat on the way.”

It’s a good thing about Nick. He might resist ideas as stubborn as any mule, but once he’s agreed to something, he takes the bit and just runs with it.

Dean almost forgets the most important thing. While Nick’s in the bathroom he goes to fetch the file about Sam.

Once they’re out the door and Dean’s locking up, Nick leans close and puts his nose against Dean’s neck. Then he just breathes deep breaths, like he’s soaking in as much of the scent as he can. “Smell good?”

“Fuck, yeah,” Nick agrees. 

“Good,” Dean says, but he’s not sure if it really is.

* * *

Nick’s driving, singing along to Bon Jovi’s Blaze of Glory. Dean is leafing through Sam’s file, over and over. One thing he doesn’t get, is why Sam would distance himself from dad. They’d been so close while Dean was living at home. He stares at the picture of Sam at the fundraiser, where Mike can be seen in the background. That’s when it hits him. If Sam decided to go into politics, he’d be moving amongst the people who lost money when his dad drove the family business into the ground. Hence the name change. “Disloyal fucking son of a bitch,” Dean mutters to himself.

Nick’s rocking along too devotedly to bother answering. “ _...I'm what Cain was to Abel, Mister catch me if you can…_ ” This song’s one that Nick can play on repeat until hell freezes over. Rather than ending up hating it, Dean’s grown to like it. It’s basically Nick’s theme song. He’ll sing it in the shower sometimes. It’s a quirk Dean loves about him.

But right now, Dean’s preoccupied with his thoughts about Sam and how he left dad in the dust because of a fucking career, when dad’s been nothing but supportive of him.

Something clicks in place in Dean’s mind. Pieces of a puzzle he’s been holding in his hand for ages. Suddenly Nick’s behaviour that night in the Impala makes a lot more sense. “Michael knows this,” Dean says, gobsmacked by realisation―an echo of Nick’s words that night. He turns off the music and repeats the statement. “Michael _knows_ this!”

Nick stares at him in suspicious bemusement. “Knows what?” he asks before he has to look back onto the road.

“You sonnova bitch! You coulda just told me straight up. Why is it I always have to play fucking Columbo with you two, huh?” 

Nick squirms in his seat. Literally squirms. “I did something wrong here? Got to give me more than that. I’m gonna get yelled at, I need to know why.”

“Hunter & Sons handled your fathers investments. My dad, caused the worst year of your lives, growing up. You told me so yourself. You learned to fucking fear your dad that year. How much was it dad lost you? Half a billion? Mike knows this. I’m not only a Winchester, I’m _the_ fucking Winchester. And none of y’all shitheads fucking told me this.” Dean waves the file in the air to underline his point.

If Nick―“King of Stonewalling”―doesn’t want to answer something he doesn’t, and he definitely shows every sign of not wanting to talk. And yet… “That’s right. Father threw a rage fit that lasted nearly a year, cursing John Winchester and everything and everyone who had anything to do with him. You’re guilty by association, and he isn’t the forgiving type.”

“And Mike knows who I am.”

“He sure does,” Nick agrees. “Because of that, chances are he’d never introduce you to our father and never marry you. Dad’s good at pretending he doesn’t know stuff he knows, but that’s something he won’t let pass.”

“Son of a fucking bitch.” It still fucking hurts. Being led on like this. He feels stupid about not connecting the dots earlier. Had he known from the start, he’d never have gotten himself involved with Michael Williams. It wasn’t just about hiding due to homophobia, it was _he_ , personally, who is a persona non grata.

“Yeah. Heh. You know what we should do to mess with them? _We_ should get married. You’ll be Dean Winchester Williams. The ultimate ‘Fuck You’ to both father and Mikey,” Nick jokes with a faintly amused smirk and a nervous twitch by his eye.

Dean just stares at him. “You know what? We fucking should.”

It’s Nick’s time to stare. “You can’t mean that.”

“Hell yeah I do! They pretend we don’t exist? We fuck them over for treating us like shit.”

Nick looks sceptical, frowning at the road. “Seriously, Dean. Would you really marry a mess like me? I’d go on record, sham marriage or not.”

Dean’s heart’s hammering, there’s nobody he’d rather marry. He wishes they weren’t talking about a sham marriage. He puts the file in the back seat, turns his body towards Nick and puts a hand on Nick’s thigh, pinning Nick with an intent, earnest gaze. “Nick. Listen to me. I would kill for you. I would die for you. In light of that, getting our names joint on a paper doesn’t seem like such a far stretch, does it?”

* * *


	37. No Guts, No Glory

* * *

# No Guts, No Glory

3 years, 1 month (2 year, 4 month)

“Why a fucking church? What are you? Bridezilla?” Dean drums his fingers against the steering wheel, half in amusement, half in annoyance. They’d taken the Porsche Cayenne again and Dean’s developed a slight love affair with the car.

“Baby, I know you’re an atheist, and that this isn’t meant to be taken too serious. And I’m not a praying man. But chances are, this will be my only marriage, and I want the Lord to be present,” Nick argues.

Dean’s shoulders shake in held back laughter. Once upon a time, he’d been questioning, thinking that maybe there is a God, and hoping for it. Then he saw war with his own eyes, and things changed. If there is a God, it’s evil and should be killed. But Dean doesn’t believe in God at all. That Nick does is fucking hilarious.

Nick’s argumentative posture deflates. “Fine. Nevermind.”

Dean shakes his head and flips down the visor as the car turns head on against the glare of the sun. “Nah, man. We’ll marry in a church. With a priest and everything.”

Nick perks up. “Really?”

“Yeah, sure. Why not? You want the Lord to be there, I want you to be there. We’ll both get what we want.” Dean side eyes Nick with a little smirk. He’s secretly thrilled that Nick cares about _how_ they get married. He’s even more thrilled that they will. And being on a road trip with Nick’s awesome. The further they've gotten from Mike’s apartment, the more Dean’s relaxed. He knows for sure now, that he won't go back to Mike. He isn’t wired to lead a double life like this. He wonders how Mike manages.

Nick’s smile is wide and open. “Thanks, darling, it means a lot.”

“Don’t sweat it. Anything worth doing, is worth doing well.”

“Fair enough.”

“Woah, look at that lake! How bout stopping for a swim?”

“Any reason for you to get naked is good in my book,” Nick agrees. They’re in no hurry. Mike has been leaving Dean between 5 and 10k every time he left, but Dean’s been squirreling that money into a bank account, paying for his nights out mostly with money he's earned working. He’s got 172.891 dollars in his savings account. That’s a fuckton of money that can keep him and Nick afloat for a long time if they spend wisely, especially since none of them do well mentally if they don't work. The future's looking bright.

* * *

Mike calls soon after he was scheduled to return home. Dean and Nick are doped out on painkillers, sitting leaned against two big boulders, a short walk away from their motel. They’re looking out over a pasture where a herd of Belted Galloway cattle are grazing. Nick’s still giggling under his breath about Dean being able to name cow breeds by names other than just ‘cow’. One of Dean’s friends in boot camp was _very_ passionate about cattle, and the knowledge had rubbed off on Dean. He knew jack shit about how to care for cattle, but he can identify them. Mike’s distressed when he calls. For a moment, Dean feels infinitely guilty. He reminds himself that Mike’s a cheating bastard that doesn’t really care, and considers him property. 

“Where are you?”

“I wrote you a note. I've gone to find Sam.”

“It’s a bad idea. You'll be hurt.”

“Hey, you might be able to turn your back on a brother willy nilly, but I fucking can't. If Sam rejects me, it'll be on him, not on me. I need to see him.”

There’s a silence where Dean can hear some paper ripping, followed by the sound of what he knows is chewing gum crunching. “Okay. Tell me where you are and I will come to you. We'll find him together.”

“Nu-uh. I've asked for your support in this for years. You didn’t want to give it to me then, I don’t want it now. I'm doing this without you.”

“Dean.”

“No, Michael. That’s final.”

“Alright, alright. Do you need anything? Money? Contact with a good private detective? Is there _anything_ I can do to help?” Mike asks, chewing his gum in that incessant way he does when he’s stressed out. 

Dean’s surprised, to be honest. Mike has nothing to gain by helping him. Maybe he just wants Dean to trust a private detective that'll mislead him. “I took the Cayenne,” he says instead.

“You want it? Should I sign it over to you?”

Dean chuckles in bemusement. “Dude, are you afraid I'm gonna commit a crime and frame you by using your car?”

“ _No_. Don’t be daft, soldier. But if you do commit a crime, please tell me so I can make sure there's evidence that you were with me when it happened, okay?”

Dean laughs. “I can’t believe we're having this discussion. I'm on my way to find my brother, not on a crime spree. Chill.”

“If you say so. But call me, okay? If you need something, or there's _anything_ I can do to help. Don’t hesitate to call.”

“Sure. Gotta hang up now. Take care.”

“You too. Love you.”

Dean hangs up and stares bemusedly at his phone. 

“What did he say?” Nick asks, voice mellow and eyes tracking a calf trotting a couple of steps to keep up with its mama.

“He tried to talk me out of it.”

“Did he succeed?”

“No.”

Nick grunts noncommittally. Two painkillers puts Dean in the super focused state. Three, and he gives zero fucks about anything but still has energy. Four, like they’ve taken now, makes them both mellow and reluctant to move, limbs relaxed to the maximum. Sometimes Dean will get skull splitting headaches afterwards, but it’s worth it.

“Strange thing is, once he couldn’t talk me out of it, he wanted to help,” Dean says and pockets his phone.

“Sounds like him. ‘Luci, don’t do it. It’s a bad idea.’ ‘No, this is a brilliant bad idea, Mikey, I’m doin’ it.’ ‘Alright, alright. Then this is how we’ll make it work…’” Nick babbles, seemingly to himself. His eyes are distant, lips quirked up softly, lost to the world, sucked into remembrance.

“He offered me an alibi, should we go on a crime spree,” Dean says, eyeing Nick suspiciously. He thinks Nick might have taken even more than four pills, or combined it with something else. He’s floating off more than usual.

“We’re going on a crime spree?” Nick asks, completely serious, shifting his gaze to Dean. His eyelids are heavy, and eyes glazed. Definitely took a combo then, Dean thinks.

“Not yet. We gotta find my brother first,” Dean tells him, trying not to laugh.

“Fair enough.” Nick nods like it’s a done deal. Sam first, crime spree later.

Dean cackles. “Dude, you _wasted_. Whatcha take?”

Nick shrugs. “Dunno. Got them from some dude a couple of weeks ago. You want one?”

“Yeah. Wherever we go, we go together, baby.”

Nick digs in his pocket and almost tips over to the side. He comes up with a small pastille box and takes out a small white pill. He hands it over and puts the box back.

Dean looks at the pill in his hand. “And you don’t know what this is?”

“No. But judging by the effect, I’m guessing benzo or something like it. Dunno. Life’s good. ‘S all.” 

“Benzo doesn’t get you wasted.” Dean swallows the pill and washes it down with the bottle of Coke mixed with vodka that they'd brought. 

Nick chortles. “It does when mixed with painkillers and vodka.”

“Fair enough. Mike offered to hook me up with a private detective. I don’t get it. Bet he wanted to make sure I don't find Sam.”

“Nah. He makes an offer like that, he'll offer you the best.”

“That would be self sabotage,” Dean points out. By force of habit, he drags a finger behind his ear, as if he’s tucking a strand of hair behind it. He hasn't had hair this short since he left the army. It’s still longer than he'd ever wore it in his army days though. It feels odd when there’s no strand there to tuck back.

“Mmh,” Nick hums his agreement. “But he still loves you. He'll be looking out for you even when it'll hurt him. I sure wish he'd talked you out of this folly.” He’s got that soft expression he gets sometimes when talking about Mike. 

Dean’s not in the mood for any Mike positivity. “I thought you said he was a lying snake?”

Nick scowls fiercely. “Lying, backstabbing, disloyal piece of shit who thinks only of himself! If I ever see him again, I'll beat the living shit out of him,” he growls. 

Dean sniggers. “Christ. Chill, Mr.Hyde.” What was it Nick said? His feelings towards Mike are complicated at best. No shit. Dean puts the cork back on the bottle and scoots over to Nick. He cups his cheek and leans in for a soft kiss. The anger that just flared in Nick dissipates as soon as Dean’s lips touch his. Dean’s skin tingles, belly bursting with butterflies. They’re getting married. He'll get to marry the man he loves. There might not be a happily forever after in store for them. But then again, maybe there will be? 

Nick leans to drag his nose against his throat and neck, inhaling deeply, then finds his mouth again, questing for entry with his tongue. Dean gives it easily, revelling in the lazy kiss that follows. Feeling like a little shit, he asks, “Who kiss better? Him or me?”

“You,” Nick mumbles drowsily against his lips. 

Dean burst out laughing. Nick stares at him, confused and offended. “Oh yeah? How'd you know?” Dean challenges teasingly.

“He’s my brother,” Nick answers, like it’s an actual, fucking, answer.

“What? You kiss your brother often?” Dean ribs, chortling.

Nick scoffs. “ _No._ Of course not. He’s my brother.” Nick’s expression is hilarious. It’s like he himself has trouble following his reasoning, but is determined to stick to it.

“So you've never kissed him?”

“Cut it out, Dean. You’re being an ass,” Nick scolds, then grabs him by the neck and pulls him back in for a kiss, not allowing him to come up for air. It’s not an unwelcome distraction. They kiss lazily until crickets start chirping and the cows are black silhouettes against a fire-pink and orange backdrop. Nick tuck’s Dean in under his arm and nuzzles his hair while they watch the sun set.

* * *

The car is parked outside of a nice suburban, colonial style house. Well manicured lawns, white walls and picket fence, black tile roof, black window shutters, two storeys. A one car garage and a silver sedan parked in the driveway. Dean’s trying not to hyperventilate. He’s failing. He’s white knuckling the steering wheel, hands cold and sweaty.

“You going in?” Nick asks and puts his hand on Dean’s thigh, squeezing lightly in a show of support. Dean flinches because it fucking tickles.

“No. No, not yet. I want to…” he trails off. Honestly? He wants to tuck tail and run. Hide in a hole somewhere and cry like a baby, then drink himself into oblivion. Christ! He’s so fucking scared of doing this.

“You want me to go with you?”

“No. Just… just…”

“Nervous?”

Dean lets out a high pitched, cut off laugh in response. “You sure this is the place?”

“Yes, I―“ Nick falls silent when the door to the house opens. 

A blonde woman steps out―Jessica, according to the file―and turns around in the doorway. She seems to be talking. Then a man steps into view and gives her a peck on the cheek. Dean’s heart stutters then goes into overdrive.

_Sam_.

He grew up big and handsome. He’s so fucking tall. It says so in his file, but the pictures doesn’t do him justice. He’s no gangly calf anymore. 

Dean remembers Sam looking like this, but only from his dreams.

He feels nauseous. He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths not to throw up.

“We can go back and reconvene at the motel. You don’t need to do this straight away,” Nick says in a soothing tone.

Dean can hear a car starting up. He doesn’t answer, too focused on calming his nerves. When he finally opens his eyes again the door is closed and the silver sedan is gone. Nick is watching him with a concerned frown.

“What do you want to do, baby? Go to the motel?” Nick asks again, so much care in his eyes and tone. _Baby_. It’s stupid how much it means to Dean that he chose an endearment rather than his name. Maybe they should quit this whole endeavor? Go back to the motel, plan the wedding, go sightseeing, forget all about Sam. That’s what Nick wants. That’s what Mike wants.

Dean dries his sweaty palms on his thighs, opens the car door, and gets out.

He resists an urge to light a cigarette while walking up to the house. He taps a cig out and puts it behind his ear. He questions his choice of clothing. Should he have dressed up? He’s wearing a beige T-shirt and muted green combat pants tucked into combat boots―what he feels the most comfortable in. But maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe he should have dressed to impress?

He ain’t going back to change now. No guts, no glory. This is who he is. Sam will have to take it or leave it.

He knocks on the door and leans a hand against the door post, putting his other hand in his pocket, trying to look nonchalant, despite his heart doing its best to beat itself out of his rib cage.

It feels like he waits forever, but eventually he hear the lock turn. The door opens. “Did you forget your keys or―” Sam’s mouth clicks shut and his eyes go wide.

Dean smirks lopsidedly at him. “Heya, Sammy.”

* * *


	38. Heya, Sammy!

* * *

# Heya, Sammy!

3 years, 1 month (2 year, 4 month)

“Dean,” Sam breathes, eyes wide, face paling.

“What’sa matter, Sammy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Dean quips and steps inside unbidden. Sam steps out of the way, almost dazedly, and closes the door.

“W-what are you doing here?”

Dean peeks around curiously. “I spent more than a decade writing you monthly, even in the middle of war, and you’re honestly surprised to see me?” he remarks and picks up a photo frame from a dresser in the foyer. Sam and Jessica’s wedding photo. Or one of them, anyway. A candid, that must have been taken sometime at the party. They’re smiling all lovey dovey at each other. He puts it down again. The house is as nice on the inside as it’s on the outside. A bit too magazine-y and visitor-ready perhaps, but nice. The floors are carpeted, the furniture stylish, there’s vases with fresh flowers, and bowls with fruit as decoration. It feels lived in and, well, _nice_. “It’s a nice setup you’ve got here. Pretty wife. Schmoozing with high ups. You did good.”

“Dean. What do you want?” Sam asks, decisively this time. 

Dean turns around to face him. “I want to be brothers again. Make up for everything I've missed. Be a family, like we're supposed to,” he answers earnestly. 

Sam’s lips twists is dissatisfaction. “No, really. What do you want? Do you need money? Is that it?”

“I told you, we're family. I want my family, that's all. I've missed you. Don’t you remember how we used to play baseball in the backyard? How you'd cuddle up to me and cover your eyes with my hand when we watched scary movies? We used to play hide and seek in Henderson's old barn. I read to you before you went to sleep when dad was passed out drunk. Do you remember how I helped you with your math homework at the kitchen table, or how I got you your first skin mags, then claimed they were mine when dad found them and got mad. I taught you how to drive. And we'd go to the mall and eat ice cream, then sit and run commentary on all the people passing by, laughing ‘til we cried. Cuz I remember, and I fucking miss you. Sure we fought. All brothers do. But I love you, Sammy. Let bygones be bygones and start over.”

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and looks away. “You think I'd just forgive you for knocking up my girlfriend on prom night, just like that?”

“Knocki― She got pregnant?”

“Yeah.”

“What she do? Make you pay for the abortion?”

“She didn’t do one, Dean. Look. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got a new life now, and you’re not in it.”

“Hey, come on, Sammy. All the crap you pulled on me? Sabotaging my school work, destroying my stuff, giving me the blame for fucking everything just so you could watch me get the shit beat outta me by dad? You had it coming. But it’s more than a fucking decade ago. Let's start over. I love you, man. I’m getting married, and I want you to come to my wedding.”

Sam scoffs. “You’re marrying a man,” he states. It’s not a question.

“Course I am. I’m gay. That’s what gay guys do. Oh, wait. This is about that anti-gay bullcrap you’re campaigning with? Why is that, anyway? You never used to care. It’s because Jessica’s parents are bigoted Christians, right? Hey, I get it. You can keep it secret. I won’t tell. But we’re Winchesters, Sammy. Us Winchester boys need to stick together. We’re family, after all.”

Sam’s lips are drawn into a short thin line, nostrils flaring. His arms remain firmly crossed and his posture becomes squared, stretched to his full height, unforgiving. “No. So get this. We’re not family. We’ll never be family. I know what would happen if I let you back into my life. You’ll ruin it. Jessica is my family now. Her parents, Tom and Grace, are my parents. I’m a Moore. You, you’re just a stranger. A piece of trash. No, toxic waste. Anyone with some sense would do best to steer clear of you. I’m not going to let you waltz in here and take over my life. Now please leave before I call the cops.”

Dean feels like the floor is falling out underneath him. His stomach plummets. His throat is too tight to breathe. “Sam, _please_.” This is what happens when you tell people you love them. This is what happens when you let them know how much you care.

“Get out of my house, Dean. And don’t come back.”

A small flare of anger, tiny, in comparison to the desperation he feels, gives him enough air to have a voice. “You’re not a Moore, Sammy. You can fake a dog’s papers, but a cur is still a cur. It’ll never be a pedigree. It’s in the DNA.”

Sam points at the door. “ _Get. Out._ ”

Numbly, Dean goes towards the door. He opens it and turns back towards Sam. “You’re gonna regret this.”

“The only thing I regret, is that you didn’t get killed in Afghanistan,” Sam retorts coldly.

Dean turns and walks out of the house. He’s numb. Can’t feel his limbs. Hardly aware of what he’s doing or where he’s going over how loud the scream of agony is, inside his head. He can’t breathe and his eyes sting. He’s trembling, and he can’t stop. Nick comes out of the car to meet him. His voice sounds far, far away, like Dean’s submerged in deep water and Nick isn’t. He grabs Dean’s cheeks and bends down to look at his face with a worried expression. Whatever he sees makes his face twist into a hateful grimace. He lets go of Dean to reach to the back of his pants, and when his hand comes into view it’s holding his gun. He takes a step towards Sam’s house but Dean’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist. “Drive me home.”

Nick hesitates for a beat, staring cold and hard at the house. Dean keeps his eyes down cast. Then Nick puts his gun away, wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulders and guides him to the car.

Dean hardly notices the drive. He knows Nick’s trying to talk to him. He knows there’s a hand touching him. Knee, thigh, shoulder, head. He knows this, but doesn’t notice it, all the same. His cheeks are wet. Sam’s words keep playing on repeat. Trash, trash, trash. Toxic waste that’ll ruin Sam’s life. ‘We’re not family. We’ll never be family.’

The contrast between the Sam from his dreams, and real Sam, always comes like a shock. _Always._ But Dean wasn’t lying. They’ve had good memories. Good times when they really _were_ brothers. They could have chosen to forget the hatred. Bury the poison from the past, and started over. It was a valid choice they could have made. And Dean wanted that so badly. He wanted to forget how much he hates that fucking snake he grew up with. He really, _really_ wanted them to be family.

Sometime later in the motel, the initial numbing shock starts to fade. He cries. He can’t stop it. Sitting on the bed, legs over its side, taking big sobbing gulps of air, he cries so hard his stomach cramps. Nick holds him through it, coos and rocks him gently. Mike knew this was going to happen. Nick knew this was going to happen. It hurts soo fucking much. _He_ wishes he’d died in Afghanistan too. Then he wouldn’t have to live with the dreams of the accusing stares of the people who did. Barnes, with half her side missing, telling him ‘It should have been you’. Mom with her head split open, telling him ‘You did this’. Benny, Ennis, Ash. The dead haunt him, blames him. The living turn him away. The pain never stops. It seems like he’s crying forever. 

But, eventually, exhaustion takes over. Nick’s holding him, shoulders curled in around him. His shirt is wrinkled from where Dean’s grabbed it and held it. Clung. It’s wet from tears and probably snot. It feels like Nick’s surrounded him, wrapped himself around him protectively, not just with his body, but with his aura. Like the wings of an angel. He holds on to Dean until the sobs have subsided enough to merit getting up to get a roll of toilet paper so Dean can blow his nose. Then he keeps holding Dean, petting his hair, kissing his temple, making small noises of sympathy. 

“Baby darling, what did he say?”

Dean tells him. He can _feel_ Nick’s temperature rising. Nick’s face goes red, his eyes _black_. Rage, like Dean isn’t able to feel at the moment, rise like a dragon in Nick.

“Can I kill him?” Nick requests. Dean can see it’s not an empty phrase. His voice is hard, eyes cold. It’s the predator the army shaped and used, baring its fangs, asking for a hunt.

“No.”

Nick makes a dissatisfied, angry noise. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t― I don’t know. I just… I’m just tired right now.”

So Nick keeps holding him.

* * *


	39. Homecoming

* * *

# Homecoming

3 years, 1 month (2 year, 4 month)

“Yeah, I had a little chat with Sammy,” Dean admits, pressing his fingers to his eyes. They feel grainy and dry after yesterday’s crying. The sun is warming him, where he’s sitting on the concrete stairs outside of the motel.

“How’d it go?” Mike asks, voice declaring that he’s got a pretty good idea already.

Dean shifts the phone to his other ear, squeezing it between ear and shoulder, digs up his pack of cigarettes from his pocket and taps his lighter and a cigarette out of the pack. They didn’t sell his brand in the last store, and he doesn’t like these cigarettes, but it’ll make do until they come across a store that stocks his brand. He lights the cigarette, cupping his hand to protect the flame from the breeze. His hair feels so fucking short now. Not even long enough to get in his eyes no matter how the wind ruffles it. He takes a drag on the cigarette, holds it in, then lets the smoke out in a deep sigh through his nose. Mike remains quiet, waiting. “As well as you’d expect,” he says at last.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“You ain’t gonna say it?”

“Say what?”

“ _I told you so_.” Dean takes his phone in hand and shifts it back to his other ear. 

Michael’s quiet again. The silent lingers for a bit. “That’s not…” He halts and sighs. “What are you going to do now?”

“I dunno. Haven’t decided. Fuck. You don’t turn your back on family. That’s fucked up. I don’t know how you did it, Mike, but it’s fucked up. Where’s your loyalty?”

“Are you talking about Luci? Dean, there’s a good reason he got disowned.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s that? Sam and you… both of y’all are disloyal dicks. You _don’t_ abandon a brother, ya hear?”

“I _can’t_ ― Baby, don’t drag Luci into this. It’s not the same. Him and me, it’s, it’s complicated. I can’t be with him. It’s not. It’s not my choice. The consequences―” Mike fumbles, trying to find words. Dean cuts him off.

“Yeah, I know. Daddy’s threatened to disown anyone of you who keeps in contact. Not a good enough reason, Mike. So what if you’re disowned? You own ten cars for crying out loud. And not just run of the mill cars either. The Lamborghini must cost like four millions. Sell it, and move into a more modest house, and you’re set for life without even working. Those are _your_ cars. _You_ own them, not your dad. You don’t need your daddy’s money. So what’s your excuse, huh? Why’d you turn traitor? _Money_? That’s just sick.”

Michael’s silent. Dean smokes his cigarette. Waits. The breeze is too strong to blow smoke rings, but he tries anyway. “Hey, I’m waiting,” Dean prompts when he realises Mike ain’t gonna talk.

“There’s more… there’s more to it than that… Money isn’t… it isn’t about money...” Mike answers, voice weak, barely controlled, almost breaking. It sounds like he’s trying not to cry. 

Dean’s all out of empathy. He snorts. “Whatever. Sam’s a politician now. Done well for himself. Pretends he’s not a Winchester. Pretends he hasn’t got a gay brother while he peddles anti-gay politics. And you know the fucked up part? I woulda supported him. He’d just let me be his brother again and I’d have supported that fucked up brand of politics because that what he needs to be happy. All I ask for is honesty, loyalty, and support, and I’ll give it back tenfold. But no. Apparently, I’m not worth it. Apparently, I’m toxic waste, best contained outta sight.” He’s talking about both Sam and Mike. It’s difficult talking about this without giving away all he knows about Michael’s dealings, all the inside information he's got. 

“You’re _not_. Don’t talk badly about yourself. I hate when you do that. Just come home. I miss you. I love you.”

Dean grunts. “I wish I could believe that.” He takes a deep drag off the cigarette, taps off the ashes and studies the glowing cherry. “You know what happens when you tell too many lies, Mike? Everything starts sounding hollow. That's what happens. Tell me something right now. I'll give you amnesty. Tell me something you've lied to me about, then tell me the truth and why you lied, and I'll forgive you. Anything. Anything at all, but you gotta confess _right_ now.” He isn’t sure he could keep the promise of forgiveness. But he wants Mike’s honesty badly.

Mike’s silent too long. There’s a sound, like a held back sniffle. It pisses Dean off. Mike’s the traitorous, lying swine. He’s got no right to be the one crying.

“Hup. Too late. You shoulda come clean, Mike. I’m hanging up now.”

“ _Dea―_ ” 

Dean hangs up and turns off the power on his phone before Mike can finish saying his name. Too little, too late. 

He pockets his phone just as he hear a door open behind him. He turns around to find Nick with a spectacular bed head, rubbing his eyes. He’s got tee and cargo pants on, but is barefoot. “Mornin’,” Dean offers.

“Mornin’,” Nick responds. “I was wondering where you went.”

“Got a call. Didn’t want to wake you up.”

“Mikey?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he say?”

Dean shrugs noncommittally. He thinks about what Mike said about him and Nick. There’s just something off about the phrasing. ‘ _I can’t be with him._ ’ “Nothing important.”

“Are we going back?”

“No. Not yet. I’m not done with Sam.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Dunno. Haven’t decided yet.”

Nick scratches his belly preoccupied in thought. “Hey, wanna see where we grew up?” he suggests, perking up.

Dean smirks. “Hells yeah. I’d love to.”

* * *

On Nick’s insistence they park the car some ways away from their destination and walk. “We’re already on our land,” Nick tells him as they walk through the woods outside the city. “We’ve got an apartment in the city too, for convenience, but this is the family estate. If we continue down this trail, we’ll get to the stables. But we’re not going there now.” He veers off onto a small game trail and follows it to a high brick wall. “Behind here, is the garden. I spent so much time in here, following our head gardener, Joshua, around,” he explains fondly and walks along the wall, trailing his hand lightly along the brick. 

They come to a small, black iron door in the wall, and Nick tugs in the handle. It opens with a loud creak, scraping debris in front of it. Nick grins triumphantly. “Only we kids ever used this door. Seems like it’s been out of use since we grew up.” He ducks his head and steps inside. Dean follows and sucks in a breath. The garden is astounding and huge. White gravel walkways, a big fountain with a sculpture of St. George and the dragon in the middle, flowers of all kinds, but predominantly roses. The scent is intoxicating. There’s a gazebo further away, and benches dot the garden in suitable places. Nick leads the way with sure steps, like he has every right to be here. He’s walking towards the mansion. A huge white, stone building with three storeys, high windows, complete with greek pillars and artful masonry. “Whoa…”

“Mhm,” Nick agrees, voice chipper. “It’s very old. It even has a dungeon, if you’d believe. Of course, nowadays it’s used as a wine cellar. But there are still iron doors with slots by the floor and at eye level, for guards to look inside or push in food. I used to have nightmares about getting locked in there, as a child. And if you look up there to the left, third storey, that’s the window I jumped from.”

“Holy shit. You coulda died.”

“Yes. But I was panicking so bad, it seemed worth the risk.” They’re at the back of the mansion, and Nick leads him to a simple door. “This is a staff entrance. We often used it when we wanted to sneak in and out unnoticed.” He tries the handle. It’s locked. He looks perturbed and digs in his pocket. “Seems like we’re going to have to pi―”

“Hey, you! This is private property! I’m going to have to ask you to leave or I will shoot,” a hostile female voice calls to them from behind, gravel crunching, telling them she’s coming closer. Dean’s heart takes a frightened leap. He puts his hands in the air and turns around to see a stern looking older woman in a grey pantsuit, greying auburn hair in a neat knot, pointing a Glock at them.

“Naomi?” Nick asks behind Dean.

The woman’s―presumably Naomi’s―eyes go wide. She lowers the gun and breaks into a big smile. It completely transforms her from stern, hard, and proper, to warm and fucking beautiful. “ _Lucifer!_ ” she exclaims, holsters her gun and comes jogging towards them. Nick steps up beside Dean and holds his arms out, then catches her in an embrace when she reaches him. It’s a warm, real hug, full of affection. Dean can see how Nick’s face turns all soft and drops the wall he has up most of the time. He grins while he hugs her. “My boy. I thought I’d never see you again.” Naomi steps away from him but holds on to his upper arms to look him over. “Look at you. All grown and handsome, just like your brothers.”

“Your mom?” Dean asks and remembers to lower his hands now they’re not being threatened anymore.

“Better. My nanny,” Nick explains briefly, still smiling at Naomi. “How come you’re still working here? I don’t have any new siblings, do I?” he asks her.

“Lord, no. I’m chief of staff these days. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to show my fiancé where I grew up,” Nick says, grinning like a moron and reaching for Dean. He grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him in, wrapping an arm around his lower back. “Naomi, meet Dean. Dean, this is Naomi. She’s one of the reasons our childhood is full of happy memories. And Dean’s the reason I’m still making happy memories,” he introduces them.

“Oh, that’s lovely. Nice to meet you, I’m Naomi Davis,” Naomi says and offers her hand to shake.

“Dean Winchester. Likewise.” Dean smiles charmingly at her and shakes her hand. She’s got a good, strong grip.

“Winchester?” Her eyes widen in surprise for a beat. “It’s a common name I suppose…”

“Not that common, as it turns out,” Nick says and gives her a cheeky wink.

“My father did business with Mr.Williams, back in the days,” Dean adds, since Nick isn’t making a secret out of it.

“Oh dear.” Naomi side eyes Nick. “You’re going to make a scene about it, aren’t you?”

Nick shrugs noncommittally and unapologetically.

“Well, I’ve never liked when children get to pay for the sins of their fathers. Dean, would you like a tour of the house? Marlon is on a business trip and won’t be home until tomorrow evening. I see no reason why he has to know you’ve been here.”

Dean assumes Marlon is Mr.Williams Senior. This is good news. “I’d love to, ma’am.”

And that’s how they find themselves with a guide with keys. Dean likes Naomi. The love she has for Nick shines through, and so does the returned affection. There’s loyalty there. She started out as a nanny and a nursemaid. She was hired basically as a milking cow, as she had milk after losing her own child, and acted as a surrogate mother for the children. But her ability to act strict, stern, and proper in front of the parents, yet warm and loving towards the children, had earned her a climb in ranks and secured a place for her here even after all the children were grown. There had been other nannies, but she’s the only one still on staff. “Naomi was the one to teach me how to pick locks,” Nick offers while they walk around the huge dwelling.

Naomi smacks him on the arm in playful retort. “Don’t go telling people that, boy.”

Nick chuckles and rubs his arm. “Relax, nana. Dean won’t tell anyone.” Dean reflects that the way Nick always smacks him on the arm may come from her. They have several similarities in their body language, things he seen in Mike too. Naomi might not be their mother, but they’ve imprinted on her as if she was.

“I come from humble beginnings. Growing up, I had to do all kinds of reprehensible things to survive. Yet I refused to resort to selling my body, like so many other girls in my situation did,” Naomi explains. 

“Nana is a warrior, like me,” Nick says and gives Naomi a one armed side hug, looking proudly down at her.

“Oh, stop it,” she tells him, then to Dean, “Naturally, when I found Luci trying, and failing miserably, to pick a lock, I had to teach him.”

“Was this before or after he jumped outta window?” Dean asks and gazes up at the enormous crystal chandelier high up in the grand entrance hall. 

“After,” both Naomi and Nick answers.

“I’ve lost two children in my life. I don’t want it to happen again. So I’ll teach my kids anything I can, to ensure it won’t happen.”

“How did it happen?” Dean asks, looking down on the red marble floor with its inlaid patterns.

“I don’t know. Nobody knows. Sudden infant death syndrome. The autopsy revealed nothing. I put Jordan to bed like always, and in the morning he was dead. Then I’m sure Luci’s told you about Raphael who died in pneumonia,” Naomi says, and Nick nods. It’s obvious she considers the Williams kids as her own. But then again, all the boys had suckled on her teets, not their mother’s. Being so close in age, she hadn’t lost her milk between their births. (All this information got parcelled out while they walked around through one splendid room after another.)

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Dean tells her, and means it.

“Thank you, dear. Say, how did you two meet?” They leave the entrance hall and wander off towards the industrial sized kitchen. It’s empty, but there’s stuff cooking by the stove.

“I was dating Nicky’s brother.”

Naomi gestures towards a simple table in a corner of the room, bidding them to sit, then takes forth a fine cognac out of a cupboard, along with three crystal tulip glasses. Nick purrs. “You know me too well, nana.”

“Yes and I don’t approve of your drinking habits. But forbidding you to do anything just ensures you’ll do it,” Naomi scolds and pours the three of them a glass. “And don’t change the subject. Not to be rude, Dean, but how the hell did Luci manage to snatch you from Castiel? You seem to be his type, and he must have put up a good fight to keep you,” she says and sits down to join them.

“Um. It wasn’t Cas. I was Mike’s boyfriend. We’ve been a couple for three years. But he’s away all the time, and then I found out he got engaged behind my back, and yeah...” Dean lets the sentence trail off. Officially, he hasn’t broken up with Mike yet. Or made it clear to Nick that he has no intention of going back to Mike. Nor is he sure if Nick wants it to be known that this is a sham engagement. But Nick had introduced him as a fiancé.

Naomi stares at him with wide eyes, then turns her head to stare at Nick. Nick’s hunching in on himself morosely, a little boy under Naomi’s gaze. “I didn’t know where to go after my retirement, Nana. So I went home…” His voice sounds so small and vulnerable, it twists a knife in Dean’s chest. Nick usually talks about going to Mike’s place with anger or sounding offhanded. But now he sounds so small and heartbroken. He already knew Mike had abandoned him, and yet he came to him like a homing bird. ‘Home’ wasn’t Mike’s penthouse, ‘home’ was Mike. “Mikey wasn’t there, but Dean was. They were living together. That’s how we met and became friends,” Nick explains, regaining some confidence again.

“I didn’t even know Mikey liked boys,” Naomi states.

“According to him, he didn’t, before he met me,” Dean tells her.

Nick perks up and reaches out to grab Dean’s jaw, angling it towards Naomi. “Yes, but look at this beautiful face. Show me a guy that wouldn’t be a gay for it,” he jokes, reverting back from lost little boy to his usual self.

Naomi gives the two of them a sad smile. “I’m happy for you two, but this is such a tragedy. I sense so much heartbreak behind it all, on all three sides.”

“Why did Nick get disowned?” Dean asks, trying to steer the conversation away from his and Mike’s relationship. And it’s a valid question, that Nick doesn’t seem to know the full answer to either.

Naomi shakes her head and sips her cognac. “To be honest, Dean, we’re not sure. None of us are. A couple of years ago Michael was at home and he and Marlon had a huge fight. Marlon was livid. Most of it happened behind closed doors, so we couldn’t hear what it was about. We grasped that it had to do with you somehow,” she says, looking at Nick, “but what set Marlon off, remains unclear. It hurt me to see. I was worried sick. Mikey stayed in his room for days. He didn’t eat, nor speak to anyone, just cried and cried. Marlon declared Luci disowned,” she goes on, turned towards Dean. “He forbade anyone to speak to, or of him, ever again. He ordered me to burn every picture of Luci we had, and to seal up his room. I didn’t, of course. I saved all the photos, and have been giving them out to those who ask for them. All of the staff that worked here when Luci grew up, has come and asked for photos. As well as Gabe, Cas, and Hannah.”

“Hannah?” Nick cuts in.

“She misses you, dear.”

Nick hums in pleasant surprise.

“Anyhow, Mikey hasn’t been the same since that fight. He took down all his photos from the walls, not just the ones of Luci. He never questions Marlon, and walks around like an empty shell, doing what he’s told with dead eyes. It breaks my heart. If anyone knows the reason Luci got disowned, it’s him. And he won’t tell me. Marlon is a cruel, cold man, with lovely, spriteful children. Luci and his siblings is the reason I’ve stayed working here. I want the best for all of them. Something happened that day, that broke this family apart. I wish I knew how to mend it, but I don’t.”

Nick reaches for Naomi’s hand and squeezes it. “It’s okay, Nana. I love you anyway,” he says with a soft smile.

Dean feels like he’s trapped in a game of Clue. There’s got to be a connection between the fight, and whatever happened between Mike and Nick on his last leave before the disownment. Somehow, he’ll figure it out.

“Lúci!” A man’s voice, with a foreign accent, shatters the moment. They all turn towards the newcomer. A big burly man with gray hair and a spectacular moustache that is twinned to curl upwards at the sides. He’s dressed in chefs clothing.

“Baptiste!” Nick bounces up and skips to greet the older man with an equally warm hug (albeit shorter) as he gave Naomi. “Come! Meet my fiancé,” he urges and drags the chef to the table to introduce Dean.

* * *

Over the course of the day, Dean’s introduced to several other people, all equally happy to see Nick. They’re family too, Dean realises. Sadly, Joshua had passed away some years prior, and Nick covers the heartbreak he feels about it fairly well. “He was ancient already when I was a kid, Dean. If he were still alive, he’d be like 347 years old, at least,” he jokes. But Dean can see it hits him hard. They’re bid to stay the night and Nick’s absolutely gleeful about showing Dean his room.

“I thought you said it was sealed off,” Dean asks Naomi when they continue the tour upstairs, conveniently ending it by Nick’s room, which is on the corner of the third floor.

“I said I was ordered to seal it off. Marlon pretends the room has ceased to exist, so we keep up the cleaning of it. I haven’t even bothered locking it. I’ll leave you kids alone now. Dinner will be ready at six. Call if you need anything.”

“Thanks, nana.” Nick kisses her cheek, then drags Dean inside and closes the door.

Dean looks around curiously. Like all rooms in this blasted building, it’s huge. A grand king sized bed with a wrought iron frame that invites to play naughty games including rope or handcuffs, a large mahogany desk with a phone, an old fashioned inkwell and quill pen on, beautiful mahogany furniture, a cream coloured, soft rug that you can sink your feet into, throw pillows and blankets in pale, warm colours to contrast the darker furniture, and two doors, that Dean guesses leads to an en suite bathroom and a walk in closet. But what really strikes him are the photos on the walls. They’re different than the photos he’s seen at Mike’s or on any other walls. There are photos in both black and white and in colour, blown up to large sizes. Close ups of flowers, mostly roses, facial portraits, a picture of a running horse, and another one of a puppy. Dean wanders inside and studies them one by one, like he was in an art museum. Nick trails along behind him with an expectant expression, hands behind his back.

Dean points at the picture of the puppy. “Border terrier?” He looks at Nick for confirmation.

“Mhm,” Nick confirms with a nod and a closelipped smile.

Dean looks at the rose pictures, dew drops on the petals, a bee hovering above, brilliant colours. Then at the portraits. He recognises Castiel in black and white, his head tipped back, eyes closed, exhaling smoke. Another one in colour, Gabe with a bright orange lollipop, Anna, in colour, her hair burning red, haloed by the sun, as she smiles with downcast eyes. A black and white of Hannah(?) looking over her shoulder. There are others, but the largest one is of Mike (No surprise there) wearing a rose crown and smiling a lopsided smile and looking teasingly at the camera. They’re all teenagers in the pictures, except for the girls who’re younger.

“What do you think?”

“They’re awesome.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Wait. Did _you_ take them?”

Nick nods with a big grin, eyes glowing proud.

“That’s fucking awesome. You’re really good.”

“Thank you. It was one of the hobbies dad encouraged. I’ve lost my camera, but I took a lot of pride in my ability.”

“You fucking should,” Dean agrees.

“Can we make out on my bed now?” Nick asks hopefully. 

Dean laughs. “Baby, you can do whatever you want to me on this bed. You don’t even have to ask.”

“In that case, I will,” Nick answers with a sly smirk, and gives Dean a shove so he falls back onto the bed. He goes to his nightstand and takes out two pair of cuffs.

Dean laughs when he sees them. “That’s exactly where my mind went when I saw this bed frame.”

“Great minds think alike.” Nick winks at him.

Dean’s glad they went here. Nick’s shown new sides of his personality, as well as revealed new interests. And he’s gotten a few more clues to wrap his head around, about the disownment. He also feels warmth about how Nick introduced him to everyone. Like he really is a fiancé brought home to meet the family. It makes a part of him sing inside. 

Later, when he’s cuffed, he hates Nick a little. Nick takes his time, teasing him, _edging_ him. Driving him to the brink of what he can take, until he’s fucking begging. When he finally gets to come, he fucking screams. It’s almost embarrassing. But it’s worth the tenderness with which Nick treats him with afterwards. 

Dean’s so fucking in love with this idiot, it isn’t even funny. 

They shotgun a cigarette in the afterglow. Dean’s goo in Nick’s hands. “You like it here,” he observes lazily.

Nick pets his hair, relaxed and gaze soft under heavy eyelids. “I do,” he agrees easily.

“So why didn’t you come here on your leaves? Naomi said you’d only been home a few times after you joined the army.”

“Dad lives here too.”

Marlon Williams. Dean will forever hate that man, for ruining Nick’s life.

Nick suddenly frowns and stares at the night stand on the far side of him. “What the―?”

Dean turns his head to see what he’s looking at. On the nightstand, hidden behind the lamp, is a small glass with a dried flower twig in it. “Ey. Looks like one of ‘ems moss rosebuds you gave me. You forgot you put it there or something?” 

Nick hums noncommittally, then takes a deep drag on the cigarette and bends down to transfer the smoke to Dean, tugging lightly on his hair. It’s all Dean could ever ask for...

* * *


	40. Toxic Waste

* * *

# Toxic Waste

3 years, 1 month (2 year, 4 month)

 

“I’ve figured out what I want to do,” Dean says, rubbing _Cayenne_ dry after her wash. He simply called her Cayenne now. She’s a big, pretty girl. Palladium metallic colour gleaming in the sun. She got herself all muddy in yesterday’s rain. Dean had chased Nick off when he tried to help washing her. Instead Nick sits on a nearby fence and watches, providing beer, cigarettes, and kisses, while Dean washed her by hand, shirtless.

“Find your kid?” Nick suggests curiously. He seems rather content just watching Dean work on the parking lot behind the motel. It’s been two days since they were at the Williams estate, and Nick’s spent those days showing Dean around the city. He’s even stood outside the skyscraper where Mike works. Mike’s not here right now. He won’t return until tomorrow. Dean hasn’t turned on his phone since his last talk with Mike.

Dean scrunches up his face in confusion and straightens up. He turns towards Nick. “ _No_. Why’d I want to do that?”

Nick squints and tilts his head bemusedly. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Yeah, no. Dean’s never wanted kids. Rather, he never wanted to take on the responsibilities of a father. He’s fucking trash and he knows it. Ain’t no good for a kid. “First off, if they wanted me to take my responsibility as a father, they woulda contacted me. The chick knew who I was and that I was enlisting. Second off, if she _had_ , I woulda offered to pay for an abortion. And lastly, put yourself in the kid’s place. He or she is a fucking teenager by now. I show up, no job, swearing, smoking, drinking and doing drugs, not really wanting anything to do with him or her. The mom has probably married, getting a good dad for the kid. I'd ruin the kid's life.” It’s kinda cool though, that there’s a kid out there, carrying on the Winchester genes. However messed up those genes might be.

“Fair enough. So what do you want to do?”

These last days Dean’s been thinking. The more he thought, the angrier he’s become. Angry at Sam, at Mike, at Marlon Williams. He wants to fuck them over for how he and Nick has been treated. Sure, none of them are perfect angels. But they’re good, in their own way. They don’t fucking deserve what they’ve been getting.

“I keep thinking about what Sam said. That I would ruin his life if he let me back in, and that I'm toxic waste.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Your dad and Sam treats us like we don't exist, right? Pretends that the world is like they wants it to be. Us not in it.”

“So?”

“If you've got toxic waste in your backyard, what's the last thing you should do?”

There’s a glint of understanding in Nick’s eyes. “Pretend it doesn’t exist.”

“And why is that?” Dean asks.

“Because it'll ruin your life.”

“Bingo! Which it wouldn’t have, if you'd handled it correctly. Contained it properly. People like you and me, ain’t toxic unless we’re wounded an’ emotionally bleeding. I’m tired of getting betrayed and disrespected. I can be the most loyal son of a bitch you’ll ever meet. But I’m also a fucking soldier. You declare yourself my enemy, I’ll fucking fight you. And Sam, Sam said he wished I’d died. Dunno about you, but that was a fucking declaration of war. He thinks havin’ me in his life would ruin it. I’ll show him that turnin’ me away is the _real_ life ruiner.”

“How? Reveal he’s a Winchester?” Nick’s getting excited now. He hasn't been pushing Dean to make a decision, past suggesting killing Sam that first day. He’s got a penchant for using too much violence. But that's not what Dean wants. He wants a revenge that'll stick with Sam for life. He chose to forsake Dean, and he'll pay for it for a long time. 

“Nah. That’ll only matter to a few rich, old geezers. I need it to be personal. I want to hit him where it hurts.”

“How?”

“Dunno yet. First we need to figure out what he really cares about. Then we destroy it. We need to do some recon. Check out his house. His office.”

“So we’ll break into his house when nobody’s home… did you see an alarm?”

“I did.”

“So we need to find out the code―” Dean’s snigger interrupts Nick. “What? You already know it?” he asks instead. 

“Dude, no. But that thing runs on electricity like everything else.”

“So?”

“If there’s no electricity in the house, the alarm won’t go off.”

A predatory smile grows on Nick’s face. “I like the way you think…”

Dean feels that ugly dragon rear in his belly, grinning a sharp, toothy grin. Revenge. Retribution. Blood pumping fluorescent green and corrosive in his veins. Excitement sizzles under his skin. He'd thought nobody could like this side of him. But he sees the mirror of himself in Nick’s eyes. It’s them against the world. It can’t get any better than that.

* * *


	41. Recon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *There's a little retcon/clarification about Nick's job in the army in this chapter. If I'd bothered doing my homework earlier, it would have been mentioned earlier. It doesn't change the story in any way though. I'm just putting a name on the work he's told us he's done.

* * *

# Recon

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

They stake out the house. Stalk both Jessica and Sam for a week. Dean locates the main inlet of electricity to the house and temporarily disabled it using magic. Okay not magic, but that’s what he tells Nick when he coos in wonder. 

“I thought you’d cut the cord like they do on movies,” Nick tells him while he picks the lock to the back door.

“That’d be stupid. Then how would we turn the electricity back on? We don’t want Sammy to know we’ve been here.”

The lock clicks open and Nick throws a glance over his shoulder. “Nervous?”

Fucking _of course_ he’s nervous. They’re breaking and entering. It’s a felony. He’s got adrenaline coursing through his veins, senses sharp and alert. But he’s also _excited_. It’s like being cooped up at base camp for too long and then finally being sent off on a mission, getting to see some action. He’s got a sense of _purpose_ again. “Nah. Let’s do this.”

Nick winks at him. His eyes convey the same thrilled excitement about what they’re doing, as Dean’s feeling. They go inside and shut the door. Dean puts down his toolbox by the door. It’s early in the day, so daylight provide enough light to look through rooms, but they’ve got flashlights for closets and cupboards. They decide to split up. Nick will take upstairs, and Dean downstairs. 

“Hey, Nick,” Dean calls out when Nick’s halfway up the stairs. He stops and turns to look at Dean in question.

“What?”

“Sometimes I tuck my knees into my chest and lean forward. That’s just how I roll,” Dean jokes and waggles his eyebrows. It’s a stupid joke meant to lessen his nerves when they split up. He used to do this if he was left alone in a sharp situation in the army too. 

Nick snorts in amusement and rolls his eyes. He turns and continues up the stairs, muttering “Fucking dork,” under his breath, sniggering to himself.

They have several hours before Jessica, and then Sam, is expected to come home. It doesn’t mean they don’t have to be alert, as someone might have seen them. But while they were staking out the house they noticed the neighbours coming and goings, and it seems like they too had ordinary 9 to 5 jobs. As far as they know, no one in the surrounding buildings are at home.

Turns out this endeavor is far more emotional on Dean than he’d expected. As he goes through drawers and cabinets, he finds photos and mementos from the life Sam doesn’t want him to be part of. Pictures from college parties, romantic get togethers, postcards from friends, fucking receipts. Small things that tear at Dean’s heart, leaving it shredded. He turns the sorrow into sickly yellowish green, bitter anger.

“ _Bingo_!” Nick calls out from above.

Dean, currently sitting on the living room floor, going through a photo album, puts it back and heads upstairs. He finds Nick in the bedroom, looking down into a nightstand drawer. “What didja find?”

Nick gives him a triumphant look. “Come. See for yourself.”

Dean walks over there and stares down in the drawer. It must be Jessica’s. A vibrator, a pill jar, a thermometer, a pink calendar with notes of what might be body temperature on it, a Cosmo… “What am I supposed to see here, Nick?”

Nick rolls his eyes impatiently. “Sometimes I forget that you don’t fuck women. See that pill jar? Clomid? Hot tip, if you ever see Clomid, or Serophene, come to think of it, in the house of a woman you fuck, run like hell. Those are fertility drugs. That calendar tracks her ovulation. They’re trying, and _failing_ to conceive. Add to that, that the only thing your brother brought up when you were here, was how you knocked up his girlfriend. Little Sammy is trying to be a baby daddy, and you managed to do a one hit wonder. We’ve found a sensitive subject.”

“Ooooh. I can work with this. I can fucking work with this,” Dean purrs.

They continue searching the house. There’s nothing really interesting. Nick takes photos of every calendar they find, to scrutinize what’s been penned in later. But aside from the fertility drug, there’s nothing more that seems like a matter of the heart. They can’t lock when they leave, but figure (hope) Sam and Jessica will just think one of them forgot. If there’s any clocks that are left blinking, or if food got spoiled in the freezer while the power was out, it’s not a big deal. Power cuts happen, and Dean easily turns the power back on.

* * *

Nick taps his phone screen, thumb and forefinger swiping outward to zoom in. “Look at this,” he says and takes a sip of the cold beer. The glass has a layer of condensation on it, and a drop of water tracks its way to the bottom of the glass. Dean reflects that the glasses are sweating as much as he is. But the bar is decent, and has booths that offer privacy. They’re sitting side by side so they can look at the pictures together. Dean puts an arm around Nick’s neck and leans close so he can see. It’s a picture of a calendar, zoomed in on a doctor’s appointment along with a phone number. “See? Sam has a doctor’s appointment. I think we want to know for what. I didn’t bother taking pictures of past months, but in hindsight, maybe I should’ve. If I remember it correctly, there was another appointment to the same doctor, six months prior. And if Sam’s gone to the same doctor before, there’ll be journals. We want to read them.”

“Yeah, but how?”

“I’ll call Gabe. He’s got some very competent hackers working for him. If he can’t help, we’ll focus on the doctor. Distract him while he’s logged in so we can check the journal. But let’s ask Gabe first.”

“Why does he have hackers working for him?”

“Because he’s a nosy little shit with a penchant for doing elaborate pranks and digging up dirt on people. But he isn’t a hands on type of guy, like you and I am. So he has people with questionable talents working for him, off the records.” Nick seems rather proud of the fact.

“Oh. So what are you waiting for? Call him, jackass,” Dean urges, softening the fond snipe with a kiss on Nick’s temple before withdrawing and taking a couple of deep swallows of his beer.

Nick chuckles and does as he’s told. It goes directly to voicemail. Instead he sends an email, tapping it out with nimble fingers. “There. It’s done. He’ll be in touch.” He takes a hefty draft of his beer and dries foam off his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Oh, and I found a church that is willing to wed us with short notice. They’ve got a slot in a week. Otherwise we have to wait for fucking months. The churches around here aren’t exactly welcoming towards gays, so the pickings are slim.”

“You’ve found―? When? I didn't know you'd been looking.” There’s the butterflies again. 

“Two days ago. Had a lot of time to kill while I was tailing Jessica. So are you alright with next week? Or have you changed your mind?”

“Of course not. Next week's awesome.”

“You want a prenup, just in case?”

“ _No_. Don’t be daft. I trust you.”

Nick hums, then hesitates and studies his glass. He drags a finger through the condensation on his glass. There’s a muscle twitching by his eye and his cheeks turns a darker shade of pink. “You might think me silly, but would it be alright if we, um, wore tuxedos and stuff like that? I don't think I'll get to experience a wedding again, and I, um…”

Dean thrills. He can’t keep the grin off his face. “You’re a romantic son of a bitch, Nick. I already knew that. So fuck yeah. We’ll do it right, and we'll do it good. Besides, if we didn't, people might not think it's for real. And we want them to think that, right?”

“Right.” Nick smiles. One of those small smiles that's just an upward quirk of the corners of his lips, but makes his eyes radiant and crinkles the skin around them. The muscle by his eye won’t stop twitching though. “Flower crowns?”

“Anything you want, babe,” Dean assures him. “You thought about how you'd want your wedding to be, a lot? I mean, not _ours_ in particular, but if you got married?”

“Yes I have. Haven't you?”

“No. In the army it was never an option. I was too paranoid of getting discharged even after they repealed the DADT, that I never dared thinking about it. The army was my fucking life. Benny used to hint about wanting to get married some day. He'd talk a lot about what we'd do after retirement. Made me consider a life with him. If he hadn’t gone belly up on me, who knows what woulda happened?” Dean shrugs. The only thing important to him is the ‘I do’ and Nick saying it. 

Nick leans back and puts his arm around Dean, bending it to pet his hair. “You weren't out to your squad?”

“Hell no. Only a select few. You were?”

“Yeah. I was out to the whole platoon.”

“Really? And they were okay with that?”

“Mhm.”

“Maybe I should’ve become a Green Beret, like you.”

Nick chuckles. “Darling, it’s too late for that now. It hardly matters anymore. I was lucky. I was never really in the closet to begin with. But when I picked up a guy instead of a chick one night when I was out with the squad they were surprised, but fine with it. I didn’t flaunt my bisexuality, but unlike you I didn’t really care if I got kicked out. It’s not my employer's business where I put my dick.”

“Huh.”

Nick places a kiss on Dean’s shoulder. “How about white roses for the wedding?” he changes the subject. 

“As long as they've got thorns.”

They proceed to discuss details of the wedding, or rather, Nick suggesting things, and Dean saying yes to them. It’s preposterous to assume that they are just fuckbuddies, and this is just a ruse. Not with the way Nick’s eyes seem to glow when he talks about the wedding. But _of course_ , Nick has to burst that bubble. “When are we going back to Mikey?”

Dean gives Nick a smile, unwilling to tell him that they aren’t. “When I’m done here. All the time I’ve spent waiting for him? It’s his time to wait.”

Nick nods in acceptance and entwines their fingers under the table. Looking content ‘knowing’ they’re going back. Dean wishes he didn’t.

* * *


	42. Be My Bro, Bro

* * *

# Be My Bro, Bro

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

They’re walking along the street after having been to a tuxedo fitting. Nick had dragged him around all morning. Dean’s hungry and grumpy as fuck. They’re on a schedule, still tailing Sam and Jessica, but both are busy at work until 3 PM, so Nick and Dean had time to do this shit. Nick’s like a friggin girl, fussing over the right flowers and fabric for the tuxes. “Why is the colour so fucking important? Roses are roses,” Dean complains. They’d been to three fucking flower shops before they found one that could provide exactly the right ones. They have both kept down their intake of substances and alcohol since they started stalking Sam and his wife. They haven’t been _sober_. That would have been counter productive, since keeping the intake down is to stay sharper, and going through withdrawal does _not_ make you sharp. But the semi-sobriety still makes Dean’s mood worsen. It means less sleep and more nightmares.

“White stands for purity and reverence, but also silence and secrecy. It’s a classical wedding colour.” 

“And orange? Why orange, and not red?” Dean probes. Red seemed like the logical choice for a wedding, but Nick had been very particular about that combo. And it had to be juuuust the right orange too. Nick wanted flaming orange, not peachy orange. 

“Passion. Desire. We’ve got that, right?”

Dean chuckles. “That, we do,” he agrees. “So what does blue―” Nick’s arm shoots out and stops Dean mid stride, cutting him off. “What?”

Nick turns towards him with a determined expression. “Dean. I can’t do it like this.”

Dean gets a knot of ice in his belly. “What? You drag me all around to get it perfect and now you wanna pull out?” he snipes, defensive in his fear.

“No. _No_. Anything worth doing, is worth doing well. You said so yourself. And getting married, is something I’ve wanted since I was a pre-teen. I’ve had this romantic notion... For whatever reason we’re doing this, I can’t just―” Nick huffs in frustration, takes a step back, and takes something out of his pocket. Dean’s mouth is dry. He’s not following. Does he or doesn’t Nick want to do this? If he want’s to pull out…

But then, Nick goes down on one knee in front of him, swallowing nervously. He holds a small velvet box in his hand. “I know that this must seem absurd to you, during the circumstances. But I need to do this or my mind won’t get any rest.” He takes a deep breath, as if he has to collect courage to do this. “Dean Winchester. You’re my best friend. My partner in crime and my brother in arms. You, coming into my life when you did, saved me. I would probably go under if you weren’t there for me, calling me out on my bullshit, kicking me in the ass when I need it, and looking out for me. Would you… would you do me the honour, of marrying me?” he says, opens the lid of the box, and holds it towards Dean, revealing a ring.

How many sizes can a heart swell? Because the fucking Grinch can’t hold a candle to what’s happening in Dean’s chest right now.

Dean presses his hand against his mouth and blinks to keep from crying.

“Dean?” Nick prompts, looking more nervous and distressed by the second.

Dean’s cheeks hurt from how wide he’s grinning when he finally finds his voice. “ _Yes._ Of course I’ll marry you, you stupid sonnova bitch. Us against the world, right?” Fucking of course, a stupid tear has to find it’s way down his cheek. Can he blame the last weeks’ emotional turmoil for that? Fuck, but it feels like he can’t breathe and gets too much air all the same.

Nick’s eyes are bright and happy. “Yeah?” he asks, grinning, takes the ring from the box and then Dean’s hand, looking up at him for final confirmation.

“Yeah,” Dean says. He might have made a wounded, choking sound when Nick, fumbling, puts the engagement ring on his finger. He’s not sure. But then Nick gets up and they’re hugging, and it doesn’t matter because Nick’s warm and solid and _there_. Somewhere around them a couple of passerbys that had stopped to watch, claps their hands and awws, and it doesn’t matter either. 

Nick gives him a kiss and leans their foreheads together. “You crying, baby darling?”

“ _Shut up_. I'm an emotional guy, okay? And that was fucking beautiful.” They’re both smiling wide at each other. It feels so fucking real. How the hell isn’t this real? 

Nick scoffs teasingly. “You’re so fucking gay.”

“Fuck you. You’re a sap too, you asshole. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have done this.”

Dean literally can’t remember when he last was this happy. Three years ago, when he met Mike perhaps. When he was still floating on clouds, unaware of the lies that would crumble their trust and subsequently relationship, to dust. He wants to tell Nick he’s never going back, and that he wants this to be a 100% real. Fear of getting his bubble burst makes he bite his tongue.

* * *


	43. Jessica

* * *

# Jessica

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

Stake outs are boring as fuck. At least now, when Jessica’s visiting a friend down the road, and Sam went off to, well, who knows? Nick’s the one tailing Sam. It’s the most practical setup, as Sam hopefully won’t recognize Nick. 

Here at the end of the street, just down the corner across the road, is a small local shop. Jessica is in the garden on the back of the house of her friend’s, along with the friend and two toddlers. They’ve been there for an hour or so and Dean’s out of smokes. He can’t hear what they say from this distance, and gleaning Jessica gossipping and playing with toddlers from a distance isn’t really doing it for him. He feels jumpy and tense and curses himself inwardly for not thinking of asking Nick for a benzo or painkiller before they split up. The store is just on the other side of crosswalk. Jessica lives down this street, and chances are, if he nips over to the store for cigarettes and coffee, she’ll still be at the friend’s house when he gets back. Most likely, if she isn’t, she’ll have gone home, right? He’d be able to find her again.

He takes the risk of losing track of her and crosses the street by the intersection.

There’s a line by the register. Some old hag is argueing about not getting a discount she―according to her―should have gotten, while the cashier is trying to explain to her that the discount’s only valid for another brand. But the hag ain’t listening. 

Why should she, when she can hold up the line instead? 

Dean counts to ten in his head and shifts impatiently. He thinks they should’ve sent hags like her to die in war zones instead of generous, warm-hearted, beautiful young men like Ennis. 

Dean’s coffee's getting cold, and his temper increasingly worsens. He’s beginning to regret that he didn’t take a lid to the coffee. But eventually the hag leaves, declaring loudly how she’s never shopping there again and how bad the service is. By then, the whole line hates her, and the teenage girl who’d been next, reassures the cashier that the service is great, thanking her for doing a good job and having patience with idiots like the hag. She doesn’t use the word hag, but they’re all thinking it. Dean would have had a lot nicer thoughts about the kind-hearted teenager, if her kindness towards the cashier didn’t slow the line down.

Fucking _finally_ it’s his turn. He gets his cigarettes, pays for it and the coffee, and heads out. He lifts his arm to tip the cup, drinking the lukewarm coffee just as he turns the corner. Somebody bumps into him, head on, and the coffee spills all over his face and shirt.

“ _Christ_! Shit! Fuck!” he curses, hopping back and leaning forward, but too late.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry. Are you alright? Jesus, I didn’t mean to― Did you burn yourself? I didn’t see you,” the female voice babbles apologetically, slim hands reaching for him to check if he’s alright.

He lifts his head, ready to give the bitch a piece of his mind, and― 

Jessica.

Fuck!

For a moment, he blanches, heart jumping in fright of being recognised. Sam and she met in college. He might have told her about Dean, showed her pictures.

But there’s not a hint of recognition in her eyes, only flustered concern.

“Damn it, lady! You shoulda been a hulking guy so I could cuss you out appropriately,” Dean complains annoyedly.

Jessica’s eyes widen minutely and she briefly covers her mouth with her hand.

Dean gives her a look of perturbed amusement, pinching his soaked shirt at the front and holding it away from his chest while he straightens up. “Hah! I see you smiling, ma’am. But it ain’t funny. It’s laundry day, and my brother conveniently locked me out of the apartment while he’s stuck in a meeting. Ain’t got anything to change into in the meantime.”

“I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, I’m a big girl, and I can handle a couple of swears. Give it your best go. I earned it,” she offers, bending her neck with a contrite smile, but raising an eyebrow and giving him a look that’s almost daring.

In spite of himself, Dean snorts amusedly. “Lady, you shouldn’t encourage me. You know the language those sailor boys are so famous for? They learned it from me.”

Jessica laughs, then claps her hand over her mouth, like she just remembered that she’s the reason Dean’s shirt is soaked in coffee. But her grey-blue eyes remain shining with mirth. She offers a hand. “I’m Jess,” she introduces herself. She’s a tall girl. 5’11” at least, but carries herself high, like many tall girls won’t.

Dean remembers he’s still holding the blasted empty cup, throws it in a nearby bin, and grabs her hand. “Dean.”

“Dean. I live just up the street,” she says and points behind her. “We’ve got a washer and a dryer. I could throw your shirt in a quick wash, and lend you a new shirt while you wait. I’m sure my husband has something that will fit. And I’ll offer you coffee while you wait, to make it up to you.”

“Woah, lady. Just like that?”

“My parents taught me, it’s the Christian thing to do.” She gives him a smile.

“Damn, Jess. I need to have a chat with your dad about Christian values versus safety first.”

“If you’re concerned about your safety, maybe you shouldn’t run around with hot coffee in your hand,” Jess sasses.

Dean laughs out loud. Fuck, but he _likes_ Jess. He can totally see how Sam could have fallen for her. “Fair point. I’ll take you up on your offer. Just gotta text my brother and tell him that he can relax, and not have to squirm in bad conscience during his meeting. Lead the way.”

`**Dean:** Jessica just invited me in. Can you make sure Sam doesn’t come home while I’m still there? If he does, we’re screwed.`

`**Nick:** Roger that. What are my instructions?`

`**Dean:** Don’t harm him. But use any means necessary to keep him away until I give you green light. This could be a good thing.`

`**Nick:** Any means?`

`**Dean:** Just do whatever you need to do.`

`**Nick:** Got it.`

That’s how Dean finds himself walking beside Jess, smoking a cigarette and talking, bound to enter Sam’s home as an invited guest for the first time. Jess is really easy to talk to. Some people you meet, you just click with from the getgo. It has nothing to do with sex. There’s been several women Dean’s clicked with in the past. Hell, three of his best friends in the army over the years, had been women. Mills, Bradbury, and Harvelle. (Although Ellen Harvelle was more akin a mother than a friend.)

Lies roll freely off of Dean’s tongue. He’s new in town. His dad died recently and on his deathbed he confessed that Dean had an older brother. The reason he’s here, is to get to know his brother. 

Once inside the house he removes his shirt and hands it over without second thought. Jess goes to the washing room and comes back with a white tee and a plaid shirt. She doesn’t seem overly flustered about having a shirtless man in her foyer, but he does catch her eyeing him discreetly. He withholds a smug smirk and pauses a bit longer than necessary before putting the shirts on. He likes being appreciated. Whatever trash he is on the inside, he's got a pretty exterior and he knows it. It’s the Winchester genes.

They sit down in the kitchen and continue talking once Jess has made them coffee. “You guys get along?” Jess asks curiously.

“Hell yeah. Meeting Michael was like getting back a missing part of me I didn’t even know was gone. Best brother you can ask for. We hit it off straight away, but we’re still getting to know each other. He works in an office and pulls a lot of overtime, which sucks. I’m currently staying in his place until I can find a job. Neither of us are used to living together, so mishaps like today happen. But it’s alright.” If you’re gonna lie, you need to make sure you remember your lies. Dean grabbed Mike’s name out of thin air, to help remembering.

“What kind of job are you looking for?”

“Electrician, or handyman. Anything along those lines.”

Jess sets down her cup and perks up. “Electrician? Do you know how to fix dishwashers?”

“Jess, I don’t think there’s any machine invented yet, that I couldn’t fix,” Dean answers and waggles his eyebrows with a cocky smirk.

Jess laughs. “Damn, you’re full of yourself,” she scolds jokingly.

“ _Ey_ , it’s not bragging if it’s the truth.”

That seems to strike a chord in Jess. Her smile turns affectionate. “My dad always say that.”

“Smart man.”

“Oh, stop. But could you take a look at our dishwasher? We had a power cut recently, and it hasn’t been working since.”

“Sure I can. You’ve got a toolbox around?”

* * *

It doesn’t take him long to find what’s wrong after opening the front of the dishwasher to get to the electrical wiring. “So I could fix this easily, but not today. I’d need some new parts,” he tells Jess while crouched on his knees.

“How will you fix it?” she asks, standing beside him.

“Magic.” He gives her a shiteating grin.

Jess gives him a little kick on the shin in reproach. “Don’t patronise me. I’m not a blonde airhead, you know. I want to learn.”

Dean laughs with a surge of affection. The light kick had come as a surprise, and spoke of a helluva lot more familiarity than they supposedly have. It didn’t hurt in the least. It was more of a gesture between friends. And that’s why he grabs her by the hips and resolutely pulls her down in his lap, making her yelp. His arm comes to hang in a lazy hook around around her neck and he points to the damaged area with a grin. “Alright, Daniel. Listen to Mr.Miyagi and pay attention. See this?”

Jess is tense at first. Hell, who wouldn’t be? But she relaxes somewhat and leans closer to the dishwasher where he points. He can sense that she’s on guard, but he ignores it. He has no interest in her body and she was the first to overstep familiarity. “It looks like it has burned.”

“Yup,” he says, popping the P. “It’s fried alright. If that was the only fault, I coulda fixed it right now just by exchanging the circuit. But look here, at this part. It’s melted from the heat caused when that circuit fried, and we’ll need to buy a new one. You want to help take it out?”

Jess relaxes further, sitting on his lap, while he shows her what tools to use, and how to do it, all while answering her curious questions and explaining how it happened, and how it works. Apart from the way he dragged her into his lap, he isn’t touching her in any way other than he would a friend. She’s surprisingly okay with it.

Once they’ve done all they can and put the lid back onto the front of the dishwasher, Jessica’s phone rings.

“Hi, honey!... Oh. Do you have to?... No, no. It’s okay, I just… alright. Love you too. Bye.”

Dean had sat down by the table again, and studied Jess while she talked. She started out happy, then went to disappointed and finally resigned. “Everything okay there, Jess?” Dean queries with concern, leaning over the table to give her a friendly tap on the upper arm. 

Jess sighs and rubs a hand over her face, then drags it over her hair, smoothing it back. “Yes it's fine,” she lies. Dean knows what ‘fine’ looks like, and she ain’t fine. “Just my husband. He has to work overtime, courting someone.”

“Courting?” he asks, curling up a lip dubiously.

Jess gives him an impish smirk. “Figure of speech. He works in politics. Sometimes he has to stay late to convince people to endorse him. You know, buy them dinner or have drinks. Play a round of golf or tennis. Stuff like that.”

“Uh- _huh_ ,” Dean answers, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

Jess chuckles. “I know what you're thinking, and it's not like that. He tries to get me to join him as often as he can. But I get tired of it. Having to act like the perfect wife. Guarding my tongue. Being the demure Christian girl I was raised to be. He loves me for who I really am, but when we interact with people who are important, both of us have to pretend to be someone we're not.”

“That sucks.”

“Yes. So that's why I rather let him drink those drinks or eat those dinners without me, even if it means being stuck home alone. We've got date nights to make up for it. Say…” Jess bites her lip and hesitates, looking like she’s deliberating with herself. “Your shirt is almost dry. But would you like to stay for a glass of wine? Or are you in a hurry to be gone?”

“Hell no, Jess. I’m always up for a game of get-to-know-a-random-stranger if there’s free alcohol involved,” he answers and winks at her playfully.

She sniggers and gets up to fetch glasses and a bottle of wine. “You’re just like the frat boys I used to hang out with before I met Sam.”

“ _Really_? Then why are you gettin’ us wine? We should play beer pong.”

Jess laughs. “We could. But I know how touchy you boys are about getting beat by a girl. Your precious little egos can’t handle it.”

It’s Dean’s turn to laugh. “Ooooh. Now there’s a challenge right there, lady. And let me tell you, that getting beat by a girl ain’t no problem of mine. Any girl who can beat me is automatically a bro. Problem solved. Only difference, is that your balls haven’t dropped like they were supposed to.”

Dean find himself ginning in satisfaction when that makes Jess laugh again. He really, genuinely _likes_ her. Which means they’ve got a problem. Because as much as he wants to give Sam a mental check into the board, he doesn’t want Jess to become collateral damage. She’s awesome and needs to be protected.

A glass of wine turns into a bottle of wine, that turns into vodka shots.

They’ve moved into the living room, sitting on opposite sides of the couch, backs against the armrests and feet drawn up on the couch, facing each other. Jess can hold her liquor surprisingly well, but she’s still a lot more drunk than Dean. It isn’t a fair game, going up against an alcoholic like him. Right now they’re doing a shot a question. You’ve got to answer a question to take the shot.

“You’ve got kids?” Jess asks. Cheeks ruddy and eyes glossy the way they become when you’re drunk.

“Yeah. Kinda.”

“ _Kinda_? How do you _kinda_ have kids?” she giggles.

“Hey, I’m a prime specimen of a man. Physically, at least. Healthy like a horse. But ain’t looking to be a father. The things I saw in my army days messed me up pretty damned bad, mentally. I ain’t good for a kid. Still, I swear Jess, every single time I’ve had sex with a gal, the protection has failed.” It’s not a lie, per se. “And abortion is the choice of the woman. Hence, I’ve got offspring. But I’m merely a stud, donating genes. I’ve never met the results of my efforts. If a woman wants to have my kids, I’m fine with that. But she can’t have them _with_ me, only _from_ me, if you feel me? I’d rather not fuck a girl again, ever in my life, than be forced to mantle the responsibilities of fatherhood. I know it sounds harsh. It _is_. But I grew up with a dad that was messed up, and I know what that does to a kid. I ain’t following in those footsteps. Good enough answer to merit a shot?” 

Jess pours him a shot and hands the glass over. The answer seems to have shocked her, but in no way outraged her. “And you’re okay with never seeing your kids?”

Dean tips the shot back, sinking it in one go. “Yep. They want to get to know me, they’ll have to search me out when they’re old enough. But it’ll be a disappointment for them. I’m pretty damned sure of that. My turn to ask, and since we’re on the topic… You and Sam. You planning for rugrats of your own?”

Jess smiles, bends her neck, and the smile fades. “I’ve wanted to be a mom since I was a kid myself. And the clock is ticking. I turned thirty this year. The older I get, the more dangerous it will be, giving birth. We’ve been trying for two years now, and it’s ruined our sex life. We’ve tried everything. When I’m ovulating he has to come home from the office in the middle of the day to have sex with me, or take me in certain position, and I’m on a special diet just to make our chances greater. But it’s made sex something of a chore. I don’t mind so much, but it’s taking a toll on him.”

“Aw, man. That’s messed up. I’m sorry for your sake, Jess. It's fucked up that people like me can knock someone up so easily, and people like you, who really want a kid, fail.”

Jess sighs. “Yes. And the funny thing is, the doctors can’t even say for sure, why I can’t conceive.”

“Maybe Sam’s shooting blanks?”

“I don’t know. His doctor says there’s nothing wrong with him. I’ve suggested he’d come with me to the clinic to do an artificial insemination, but he refuses. I guess we have to draw the line somewhere. It may also affect his professional reputation badly if he’s the reason we can’t conceive. I know it’s dumb, but it’s true. You know, male macho bullshit.”

“Can’t you just adopt?”

Jess makes a face. “I guess that would be the Christian thing to do,” she agrees defeatedly.

“Yeah, but you don’t want that,” Dean states.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s selfish but I want my child to be part of me. I realise I’m a horrible person for it. All those unwanted children out there who needs a home and―“

“Woah, woah, woah. Calm down, lady.” Dean scoots himself closer and puts a hand on Jess drawn up knee, locking his gaze with her. “It’s okay, you hear? Having a kid is a big deal. It’s not like adopting a pet, where you can just return it if it turns out your personalities clash. You tie yourself up to a kid for fucking life. If the condition you have, for that kind of devotion and loyalty, is that you got to be the true mother of the kid, then that’s fucking okay. Ain’t nobody’s right to guilt trip you into promising that kind of bond with _anyone_. Love of that magnitude, can’t be forced, you hear? You grow up with siblings, and parents, you learn what love is from them, even when they’re shit. But when you’re starting your own family, you get to choose. And maybe you need the full experience, right?” He reaches out and spreads his hand wide over her belly. “There are some wacked out hormonal shit going on inside a chick that’s pregnant. Y’all start producing oxytocin from the moment you’re impregnated, the way I hear it. I ain’t no expert on this shit, but this is what a sister in arms told me before she retired to start a family. Oxytocin is the bonding hormone, the shit that makes us fall in love. Maybe you need that, want that, with your kid, right from the getgo. Maybe you want the whole shebang, with feeling it kick inside of ya, puking like a idiot in the mornings, crying because potatoes, and craving custard every hour of the day. The fuck do I know? But I sure as shit ain’t goin’ to shame you for it. That’s what you want, then that’s what you want. Let somebody else adopt. Alright?”

Jess covers his hand with hers over her stomach, laughing silently at the same time as her eyes fill up with tears. “Thank you, Dean. But, just… crying because _potatoes_?” she sniffle-giggles, torn between feelings of amusement and sorrow.

He leans his chin on her knee and gives her a shit eating grin. “Ey. Have you ever met a pregnant woman? Because I have, and there’s no way of telling _what_ the hell is going on in that brain of theirs. It ain’t fucking logic, that’s for sure.”

Jess loses it, laughing, and smacks him on the shoulder.

“Where’s the lie?” Dean laughs and withdraws from Jess to fill her shot glass and reach for a napkin in the decorative napkin holder on the living room table. The tears that built up in her eyes while he gave his speech about her wanting the pregnancy, has found their way down her cheeks. He scoots back and reaches out to dry them off, dabbing below her eyes not to ruin her makeup. “There. Good as new,” he says, tosses the napkin on the table and hands her the shot. “Drink up,” he orders, then sits himself back in his original position, away from her.

“Thank you, Dean. You’re a good man.”

“Debatable,” he jokes. “Now, next question. I need another shot.”

* * *

It’s not until it’s time to leave that Dean reflects on how their chemistry―because they’ve got great chemistry―is probably different for Jess. They agree that he’ll come over tomorrow at 2 PM with the part needed to fix the washer. Then he gives her a goodbye hug, real enough to convey the affection he feels, and kisses her cheek. It’s her little indrawn breath, and the way her eyes flick to his lips, just before they withdraw, that tips him off. A tiny moment, where he feels the tension. When she steps away from him and waves goodbye, she seems flustered.

He thinks about that while he walks away, tapping out a quick message―“Green light”―to Nick. He hadn’t flirted as such, just been himself in the company of his sister-in-law. But being himself meant being flirty and playful in a friendly way, and probably a helluva lot more handsy than he should have been. She was just so fucking easy to be relaxed around. 

He stops by his car and lights a cigarette while he calls a cab. He’s too fucking drunk to drive but he’s got his charger in the car or he would have taken a cab straight from Sam’s house.

In the cab he leans his head against the cold window, mulling things over even more. Jess is his sister-in-law. Unless he tells her, she’ll never know. She could have been a great friend. Instant bros. Sib from another crib. But Sam won’t let him have that. Fuck, but that pisses him off. And now he can’t just give Sam a squeeze and let his world shatter, because he can’t let Jessica’s world shatter too. There’s got to be a way to get at Sam, without hurting Jess...

* * *


	44. Setback

* * *

# Setback

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

Nick isn’t at home when Dean gets back. He strips out of his clothes, lights a new cigarette and lies down in bed. He takes his phone and looks at his unread messages from Mike. He'd had several voicemails, but deleted them without having listened to them. He plans to delete the texts unread too, but instead he ends up reading them. There’s no confessions in them, just pleading and arguing. There’s more than 30 of them. Gotta hand it to the Williams boys―they text as relentlessly as pro fuckboy stalkers. Only difference is that there are no insults when there's no reply. Dean skims through all of them and is left staring at the last four.

`**Mike:** I've lost you, haven't I.`

`**Mike:** Tell me I'm wrong about this. `

`**Mike:** Please come back to me. You’re the only thing that matters to me these days. Please, Dean, I'm begging you. We can work it out. Please. `

`**Mike:** Please`

Suddenly Dean misses Mike something fierce. To him, it doesn't make sense. How can he be this in love with Nick, and happy in their relationship, and _still_ miss Mike? It's fucking absurd! 

`**Dean:** I'm sticking around here to deal with Sam. Dunno for how long. I met his wife today. My sister in law. She’s awesome. `

He sends the text and immediately regrets it. He has no intention of going back, except to return the car. It takes one stray thought of Mike’s engagement to bring back the anger and hurt. How do you _stop_ loving somebody? He'd sorely like to know. Because falling in love with Nick hadn’t automatically cancelled out his feelings for Mike. What had diminished them was the betrayal, and it wasn't so much diminishing as overshadowing. 

Dean makes himself work up his bitter anger to chase away the feeling, then soothes himself by looking at the new ring on his finger while he smokes and puts the cigarette out in the water filled glass-turned-ashtray on the nightstand. 

He wakes up, heart jumping in fright, when the door is flung open. Nick’s standing there, shitfaced, all mussed up and grinning like a madman. “I’ve got it! I know how we’ll ruin Sam! In a way that is personal, _and_ reflects on him, not the family name.”

Dean, still trying to grasp that he’d fallen asleep and that nobody’s attacking him (dreams are a fucking bitch), rubs his eyes and sits up, all groggy and confused. “How?”

Nick shuts the door, holds up his hands in defence and tilts his head in a calm-your-tits gesture, like he’s expecting Dean to be irate. “You said to use any means necessary to keep him away. You said that, right? I did not misinterpret that, did I?”

“Dude, no. You got it in fucking writing. What’s up?”

“You told me Sam didn’t use to care that you were gay. And you’re right about that. He doesn’t. Because he’s _bi_. And he’s got the same excellent taste in men as you do. So, and don’t get mad, but I seduced him. Before you ask, no. We didn’t fuck. I just got him drunk and made out with him. You said any means, but I also did promise you I wouldn’t―, Anyhow, I was thinking, you let me fuck him with hidden cameras. We leak the footage to the press, and Sam’s career, marriage, and relationship to his in-laws go down the drain all in one go. It’s perfect.” Nick ends his tirade and stares expectantly at Dean.

Dean blinks. “ _Huh._ ” Blank faced, he keeps his gaze locked with Nick, but doesn’t say anything else while his brain scrambles to get in gear.

Nick’s posture goes from expectant, to nervous, to downright squirming, the longer Dean is silent. He licks his lips and swallows dryly. Dean wonders if Nick’s always been this transparent, if Nick’s just stopped hiding his feelings, or if he’s just gotten a helluva lot better at reading Nick. Nick deflates, crosses one arm over his chest, rests his other elbow on it, and pulls at his lip. “Shit. I fucked up, didn’t I? You said any means without harming him, and it took me five minutes to know… I can see when people have a thirst for me. That’s why you drove me insane before, just looking at me. You might as well have pushed me up a wall and purred filthy dirty talk in my ear, and I couldn’t touch you. So when I saw Sam do the same thing… I’m sorry, Dean. I thought I could use that. I fucked up. It’s my fault. I―” 

Nick’s regret is palpable.

Dean surprises himself by holding up his hand to stop further excuses. “It’s okay. The end justifies the means. But we can’t use that.” He means it. Sure, there’s a tendril of jealousy in the back of his mind somewhere. But it’s not as bad as one can expect. And if he hadn’t learned what he had today, he’d be scrambling to find an all night store that sold cameras.

Nick looks stumped. “Bu― Why not?”

“Cuz I got to know my sister-in-law today, and Jess is fucking awesome. She loves my stupid sonova bitch brother, and if we ruin Sam publicly, she’ll get her heart ripped to shreds and be made a fool of, in front of her family and friends. I won’t stand for that.”

“Well. Back to square one then,” Nick concedes.

“Yeah.”

“You’re not mad?” Nick asks, scrunching up his face skeptically and tilting his head.

“Nah, man. But I will be if you don’t get your ass over here soon.”

Dean snorts a snigger at how fast Nick sheds all his clothes except tee and underwear while trying to stumble towards bed at the same time. He all but falls on top of Dean, making Dean laugh out loud until he's silenced with a clumsy kiss. “Fuck, I'm plastered. I downed five extra shots after Sam went home, to have the courage to face you,” Nick confesses, nuzzling him. 

Nick’s weight is a solid comfort above him, and Dean wraps his arms around him. This is what he wanted from Mike. Not just ‘please don't leave’, but a confession straight away, a reason, and a readiness to take the consequences. Honesty, plain and simple. “Ey. I said any means. I admit, that option hadn’t occurred to me, but you were following my instructions. The blame woulda been mine. This is different than hooking up with two chicks in front of my eyes without clearing it with me first.”

“You smell like a chick,” Nick says and sniffs him.

Dean chuckles. “Yeah. That'll be Jess.”

“You got that close to her?”

“We fucking clicked from the start. She could go out partying with us and fit right in.”

“She’s into you?”

“I dunno. There was a moment at the end when I gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, when things got a little awkward. But I was in Bro-mode all the time and kinda assumed that she was too. Hell, it didn’t even get awkward when I made her cry.”

Nick sniggers. “You made her cry?”

“I've got a way with women,” Dean jokes and winks playfully. “Sides, ain’t no problem. As long as you dry the woman’s tears too, it’s okay to make ‘em bawl.”

“I hate when people cry. Makes me feel powerless.”

“You handle me crying like a babe, really well.”

Nick snorts in amusement, a warm puff against Dean’s neck. “Not at all, Dean. I try to think of what Mikey would do, and do that. Internally, I just want to go out and fuck up whoever hurt you. That’s what I do. That’s what I know how to do.”

“And we’ll fuck them up, alright. But bruises heal. I want them to rip at the seams, where they can’t heal. So we gotta use our minds.” Them. Mike. Sam. Marlon.

“So what’s our next move?”

“I dunno. I’m going over to Sam’s house tomorrow, to fix their dishwasher. I’ll milk Jess for personal details. And I’m thinking… Fuck. I can’t believe I’m about to suggest this.”

“What?”

“You know when people reveal the most about themselves?”

Nick makes a questioning sound.

“Pillow talk. If you can make Sam talk…”

“Are you sure?”

“Hell no. I may possibly be a pissbaby about it. But if it helps us figure out a way to get to Sam, without hurting Jess… You do what you’ve gotta do. And I want to know why Sam won’t even talk to me. Milk him for information, Nick. Get it outta him.”

Nick hums. “I’ll see what I can do. So what did Jess tell you?”

They lie in bed and recount today’s events. None of them has anything solid, since they can’t use Sam’s bisexuality against him. But they’ll figure something out. Dean knows they will. He won’t allow for any other option.

* * *


	45. Sam’s Secret

* * *

# Sam’s Secret

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

“What the―? _DEAN_!” Nick comes running, holding his phone in hand.

“What? I need to leave or I’m gonna be late.” Dean’s just come back after getting his car from Sam’s street, and is loading his toolbox in it (it has better tools for dealing with electricity, than Sam and Jess toolbox). He took a cab to get the car, then went and bought the part, but he hadn’t been smart enough to bring the toolbox with him in the cab, and had to go back to the motel again.

“Gabe came through for us. Sam’s doctor visits aren't very interesting. Ordinary checkups and the occasional sleeping pill prescription. _Except_ ….” Nick drags it out, as if he’s uncovered something really juicy and is going to dangle it until Dean guesses.

“Except what?” Dean asks and takes a swig of water from a bottle. 

Nick’s utterly gleeful, radiating mischief. “Vasectomy. Five years ago.”

Dean coughs water out of his nose. “ _What?!_ ” He dries his face off on the sleeve of his shirt and stares disbelievingly at Nick. “You’re fucking _kidding_ me?”

“Nu-uh. Sam went and got himself sterilized, which means he’s lying his ass off to his wife, by playing along with their futile tries to get a kid.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! Aww, _man_. Jess would be heartbroken. Why the hell would he do something like that? She's wanted to have a kid since she _was_ a kid.”

“Shit just got interesting, right?”

“Fuck. You could say that.”

* * *

It’s all Dean can think about on his way over. And when Jess greets him with a hug. And when they crack jokes while he shows her how he's replacing the busted part of the dishwasher. And while her stomach rumbles, making him bully her to eat. And while he’s dissatisfied with what she procures for her diet, and wrangles her to sit down and let him cook for her. And while he cooks, dancing around to the radio, shuffling his feet and shaking his booty to ‘ _All about the Bass_ ’ by Meghan Trainor, making Jess squeal with laughter. And while he pulls her up for a dance to ‘ _[Might as well get drunk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zl5mnfufzO0)_ ’ by The Lacs, guiding her around the kitchen with one hand in the middle of her back and holding her hand with the other.

“Oh my God, _Dean_! What will the neighbours say?” Jess laughs, somewhere between delighted and scandalized. 

“I dunno, baby mama, why don’t you nip over and ask them?” Dean answers cockily with a lopsided smirk and pushes her away to spin her under his arm, before pulling her back. Mike does this. Music playing in the background, he’ll grab a hold of Dean for a dance. No particular reason except for feeling like it and being happy. Mike’s an old fashioned kind of dancer. He’s one of those wonderful men who’re so good at guiding their partner that you don’t have to have danced ever in your life, and he’ll make you look good. Dancing without a partner, he’s a bit lost though. Nick on the other hand, dances for the sheer feel of moving. He’s not huge on this type of dance. He _can_ , but he’s not good at it. The times he and Dean had danced like this, he prefers it when Dean takes the lead. Nick however, turns into a real bossman when it comes to the filthy bumping and grinding type of dance. Dean likes to dance, but not alone. He doesn’t care if he leads or follows, as long as he’s dancing _with_ someone. Jess laughs and calls him mad, but nevertheless dances along, eyes sparkling. 

The cooking timer goes off and Dean lets go of her to finish the dish he managed to scavenge ingredients for in the sorry semi-vegetarian excuse for stock in the kitchen. He serves them both and plunks himself down across from her. “Dig in, Jessy-Bean.”

Jess does, and immediately moans. “ _Jesus_ , this is good. I shouldn’t be eating this, while trying to get pregnant, but, _shit_.”

Dean preens inwardly. He’s an amateur, compared to Benny (whom he will forever compare himself to when it comes to cooking), but it makes him feel good about himself when people like his cooking, as sub-par as it is. He gives Jess a smug smirk. “Nah, man. You’ve been trying for two years―”

“Longer, actually,” Jess cuts him off, covering her hand with her mouth, cheeks puffed with food like a chipmunk. She chews and swallows before she continues. “It’s four years since we decided to stop using protection. We figure it would just happen by itself. But it didn’t. The last two years we’ve actively tried.”

“No shit? Then the point I’m trying to make is even more valid. You’ve been trying so long, y’all be totally stressed out about it. You said it yourself. You’re having sex on a schedule, letting it rule your life. All that stress and pressure can mess up the body too. One of my sisters in arms would lose her period any time we got sent into active war zones. And when we got back to home base, it’d come back. Practical, I’ll give you that. But you fretting too much, might have triggered your body to snap into survival mode and then you’re screwed. Relax and live a little once in awhile. I ain’t telling ya to go out and snort a line of coke or anything, but fat and tuna? Skipping out on veggies you don’t like. Ain’t gonna screw up your chances, Jess. I’m tellin ya.”

“I’m sure you’re right because this is heavenly,” Jess answers and stuffs her face.

“Why do you even have fresh tuna stocked, if you need to avoid it?”

“Sam. He buys it now and then. We used to have sushi night once a week, back in the days. Guilty pleasure. Tell me,” Jess pauses to take another big bite, chew, and swallow, before she goes on. She reaches out to tap Dean’s ring with her fork. “You haven’t told me about your lady love. Does she live around here? Or did you leave her behind when you went to find your brother? And do you think she’d be okay with you cooking for other women like this? This is practically an orgasm on a plate.”

Dean laughs, puts down his utensils to rub a finger over the ring. It’s so new to him, that he hadn’t even considered the need to hide it, or if there was a need. Since meeting Jess wasn’t planned, she’d probably noticed it straight away. He smiles dopily down at the ring. “Nah. He’s cool with it.”

The shocked little indraw of breath, makes him look up. “He?” Jess asks, bewildered.

“Yeah. His name is Nick. I’m head over heels for the fucker. You gonna be a cunt about it, or are we still cool?”

“No, no,” Jess hastens to assure. “It’s, it’s alright. I don’t have a problem with it. It’s just… I didn’t. I didn’t see it coming. We’re cool. I promise.”

Nevertheless, there’s something of an awkward silence descending after the reveal. After eating a couple of more forkfuls of food, Dean speaks. “Hey, listen, Jess. I can fucking hear the wheels in your head turning. I like you. I want you to be straightforward with me. I know what kind of politics your husband peddles. I know y’all are Christians. You wanna give me a piece of your mind, tell me I need Jesus, or whatever. Or just ask dumb questions, go ahead. With the risk of sounding like a hashtag, to me, love is love. And I love that stupid fucker, dick and all.”

Jess chortles, and promptly covers her mouth, blushing. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Where I come from, being bisexual is more or less a death sentence. You said it so easily, like it’s no big deal. But in my world, it’s _huge_ , and I don’t really know how to react.”

“I can get that.”

“I really don’t have a problem with it. I agree. Love is love. But I’m guilt tripping so hard right now, because I like you too, and you’re probably thinking me and Sam are horrible people. I want to explain why he’s pushing his brand of politics, and why I endorse it, when neither of us really agrees with it. And I’m thinking, that it won’t be enough to make you think of us as good people.”

“Wow. Way to overthink. But hey, I overthink all the time. So feel free to explain. I _do_ like you, Jess. And the fact that you’re not chasing me out with a broom, making the cross sign, speaks volumes.”

Jess giggles nervously. “Okay. Okay. So I actually have a gay brother? But I haven’t seen him for years. He ran away from home and I miss him soo much. I have no idea where he is, if he’s alright, or alive even.”

“That’s rough. Family’s important.”

“Yes, and that’s the crutch. I love my family very much. They’re kind, generous, hard working people. Mom’s a housewife, and she’s working very devotedly with charity, helping the homeless and the poor. Dad used to be a pro athlete. Now he’s coaching the local junior hockey team, and helps out with church activities and charities. Nana and Gramps are also sweet, generous people. I love them to bits. But. I was raised in a small town about one hour drive from here. The whole town is centered around the church, and the congregation is very old testament-y. If you don’t go to church you will be shunned, and to hear our priests tell it, homosexuals and other sexual deviants are demons walking the earth. I don’t even think anyone in town acknowledge the existence of bisexuality. My family are considered very liberal, because they think homosexuality is a disease that can be cured.”

Dean scoffs.

Jess holds up her hands in a placating gesture. “I know, I _know_. I don’t believe it. Like you said, love is love. I believe in God as much as anyone, but I don’t think he cares who you love or have sex with, as long as it’s with consent. But that’s me.”

“Fair enough.”

“When I met Sam… I’d had boyfriends before. I’d introduced them at home, and as much as daddy tried to respect me and my choices, nobody was worthy of me, in his eyes, until Sam. I think dad fell more in love with him than I did. He welcomed Sam like the son he lost when Noe ran away. _All_ my family loves him, and they get along so well. It makes me happy, because I don’t have to choose between him and my family.” Jess sighs. “But Sam and I… We had to make the choice. Sam wanted to go into politics. He wanted to influence things for the better. Help people. But if he’d go after the exact line _he_ wants, he’d go against some of my family’s, and the congregation’s, core values. We had to make a sacrifice, either of our bond to my family, or throw a bunch of strangers under the bus. Sometimes he’s walking a tightrope, trying to sneak in rights for groups that we have to pretend to condemn. Like when he talks about homosexuality like it’s a disease, he pushes the health care line harder. If it’s a disease, not a lifestyle choice, you can’t put too much blame. Stuff like that. But still. It’s cruel. I know. Just because we don’t want to give up my family. I’m sorry.”

Dean leans back in his chair, stretches out his legs under the table, and hooks his arms over the backrest of the chair. “You know, Jess. I can both get behind, and understand that line of thinking. If I’d come here to find my own brother, supporting politics like that for the sake of family, I’d have stood by him, as long as he’d welcomed me to be part of his life. And don’t get me wrong. I’m so, fucking, sick and tired, of hiding. I’m sick of it. Really. I loved my job in the army, and had to hide when I dated a guy, not to lose my job. But as long as you’ve got honesty and loyalty towards each other, I can be convinced. I have hard limits. Like if Nick would want to get engaged and marry a woman to hide his relationship with me, I’d put my foot down. There’s a million ways to explain why we’re so close, or living together. Bros being bros. Two war vets supporting each other. Cuz I may not have been diagnosed, but I ain’t stupid. I know I’m suffering from PTSD. I can’t be alone too long. If my brother needed us to lie, that’s the stuff we coulda told people. Ain’t nobody needing to know that we fuck like animals behind shut doors. Or anywhere, really.”

Jess makes a delighted, scandalized noise. “What’s it like?”

“What?”

“To have sex with a guy?”

Dean throws his head back and guffaws. “ _Dude_ , if you have to ask that, _boy_ , do I have news for you, concerning why you ain’t preggers.”

Jess laughs, blushing dark and mortified. “I didn’t mean it like _that_.”

“I get it. But sex ain’t all that different. You just need lots of lube. And you can find the answer to any other questions about the hows of things on pornhub.”

Jess giggles. If possible, she’s blushing even harder. “Are you the… do you, um… Nevermind. I think I know.”

“Am I a top or bottom?” Dean helps fill in the flustered question. 

“Yes.”

“I prefer to bottom.”

“ _Really?_ But you’re so… so…”

“Dashingly handsome?” Dean waggles his eyebrows at her.

“I was going to say tall and masculine.”

Dean laughs. “Damn, there’s so much prejudice in that statement, baby mama, like you wouldn’t believe. No wonder most of y’all straight people can't spot us gay or bi peeps. I ain’t never dated an effeminate man.” (Although, he has slept with them.) “I like the alpha type of guy. He doesn’t have to be as rough around the edges as me, but it’s his masculinity that draws me to him.”

“I understand. You like your women to be women, and your men to be men.”

“Something like that,” Dean agrees. He lets her keep believing that he’s bi. He’s already told her he’s had sex with girls (ambiguously letting her believe it’s more than one, more than once in his life).

“And you don’t hate me? Despite―”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah. You do what you can to survive. Sometimes you have to choose between two evils. That’s life. Speaking of choosing. I know I keep returning to the subject, but. If you had to choose. Having a baby or staying with Sam, which would it be?”

Jess goes quiet and looks away. “I…” Her conflicting emotions are plain on her face.

“You want a baby that bad, huh?”

“I didn’t say―”

Dean silences her with a gesture and leans over the table to take her hand. “You don’t have to say it, Jess. The fact that you have to hesitate to consider for so long, is answer enough.”

Jess makes a frustrated face. “I’ve made it clear to any guy I’ve dated, that if they didn't want to be a dad, then that's a deal breaker. But I love Sam. So it's not an easy choice. If he’s the reason we can't conceive... “ Jess sighs forlornly. “I don’t know, Dean. The clock is ticking. If he keeps refusing to go to the clinic with me, I'll have to take a hard look at my marriage. I don’t want to lose him. But if the choice is between being a single mom, or a childless wife… I'm stalling. I want to give it a little longer. I really want to spend my life with him. I _love_ him. But…” Her lower lip wobbles and she lifts her hand to cover her mouth, looking away. “I'm sorry. I just…” her voice comes out small and broken. 

Dean’s heart fucking bleeds for her. He swiftly moves his chair to the corner of the table on her side, takes her by the shoulders and pulls. She slips into his lap sideways and lets him hold her, rocking her softly. “Hey, hey, baby mama. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I can’t keep from crying with you. I’m usually better at hiding how I feel about this. We’ve been trying so long. I’m so exhausted, and it feels like it’s all I can think of these days,” she sniffles and leans her head under his chin.

“Let it out. I know what it’s like to have something inside of ya, that eats you up and takes over every aspect of your life.” He lets the hand of the arm around her back, curl around to spread wide over her belly. “Don’t worry. You’ll see. One of these days, you’re gonna have a little tadpole growing inside of ya, so you won’t have to choose. I promise.” He strokes her over the hair, kisses the crown of her hair and makes comforting noises while she cries herself out. All the while, the word ‘ _Vasectomy_ ’ pounds against the inside of his skull with every beat of his heart. It’s a lie as big as Mike’s engagement. It makes him consider kicking the living shit out of Sam, then let Nick have a go at the leftovers.

* * *


	46. Straight From The Horse’s Mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Some gore.
> 
> This chapter is longer than usual. I wanted to train myself to write short chapters, to see if I could, when writing this story. However, this chapter felt like it needed to be longer. Breaking it off would ~~Buckleming~~ ruin the pacing.

* * *

# Straight From The Horse’s Mouth

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

“You got something outta him?” Dean asks as soon as Nick crawls over him in bed. Nick had gone straight to the shower when he came home. Dean’s glad he did. He may have said yes to this, but that doesn’t mean he’ll handle the scent of another man on Nick’s body well. He tries not to think about how fucking insecure he feels about having Nick seduce Sam. Sam’s puppy eyes fucking _slays_. Dean knows that. Those fucking eyes has had him jumping through hoops for his little brother back in the days. Even when he was pissed the hell off at him.

“I’ve got a lot. You want me to recount, or you want to listen to the recording? There might be other sounds that you don’t want to hear, on it.”

“Recording. I want it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“Fair enough. I’ll skip between the interesting parts. You don’t have to hear everything.” Nick digs up his phone, opens a sound file, drags it to a certain minute and hits play. Then he settles into Dean’s side, puts the phone on Dean’s chest, and lets his hand caress over Dean’s skin, placing small kisses on his shoulder. Dean sure as hell needs the reassuring touch. Right now there are only rustling sounds and heavy breathing, coming from the recording.

“ _Wow_ ,” Sam says at last. Nick lets out a smug snigger. “You know, I’ve actually only cheated on my wife once before. Back in college. Before we were married.”

“Suure, Jan,” Nick mocks.

“No, it’s true. I cheated with my ex, Brady. We were on and off all the time and Jess and I were still new. I… I, um, I was struggling with a drug addiction problem back then. I was almost clean and he’d come suck me back in. Jess helped me overcome it. It was a close call. I think my whole family is predisposed for addiction. It’s in our blood.”

Nick hums. There’s a rustling, and Sam moans.

Dean cringes from the sound of it. What if Nick likes Sam better? _I put him up to this. I put him up to this. I put him up to this._ Thank God it isn’t a video.

“You don’t think you’ve just had a shitty childhood, or something like that?” Nick probes on the recording.

“I did. But it’s more than that,” Sam answers breathlessly. “My parents were alcoholics. My brother was quick to embrace alcohol and cigarettes. And once I tried it, I felt the pull to _oooh_ , shit!”

Dean _really_ doesn’t want to know what the wet sound that made Sam cut off, means. He closes his eyes and swallows dryly. Nick puts his lips against his ear and whispers “Us against the world, baby darling,” as if he’s sensing Dean’s shitstorm of jealousy and insecurity, brewing under his skin. It helps.

“Tell me about that shitty childhood of yours,” Nick probes.

“M-my br-brother,” Sam stutters out, gasping, evidently distracted by something Nick’s doing. “K-killed my mom when I was four― _Shit, Dean, don’t stop_!”

Dean’s eyes fly open in shock. Nick chuckles into his ear. “I told him my name’s Dean. There’s a poetic justice in that, don’t you think?”

“Wow. You just took this to a whole new level of pervy.”

“Pfft. I like the idea. Him chanting your name while we’re fucking him over. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Fucking incest-y, you mean. But at least it serves as a reminder to you why you’re doing― Wait, go back. I missed what he said.”

Nick takes the phone and rewinds a minute, then puts it on Dean’s chest again.

“...our― _Shit, Dean, don’t stop_!” Sam’s voice protests. Dean has no idea how to feel about that. It’s sick, but tumbles so naturally out of his kid brother’s mouth. Sam may not think anything of it, having no trouble making the disconnect between Nick-Dean and his big brother. But Dean’s made uncomfortable by it.

“Nuh-nuh-nuh. I want to hear this. Your brother _killed_ your mom? How old was he?” Nick asks Sam.

“Um. Okay. So get this. Mom and dad drank a lot. I didn’t think much of it, right? I was just a kid. It was the norm. I don’t have a single memory of my mom not smelling like alcohol. I’m sure she must have been sober sometimes, because they both worked with investments, but _I_ don’t remember.”

“Mhm?”

“So one night when I was four, dad woke me up and carried me to the car. He said we were getting mum from the pub. My brother was already sitting in the front seat, sulking―”

“How old was he?”

“He was eight.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“Look. I went back to sleep almost as soon as dad had buckled me up. Dad and Dean, my brother's also named Dean,” Sam chuckles at that, flustered, before continuing, “were arguing in the front, but they were always arguing, so I had no problem going back to sleep.”

“Why were they arguing?”

“I don’t know. Dean was always a trouble maker. He’d create drama out of sheer boredom I think. Anyway, next I wake up by being flung forward, the seat belt knocking the wind out of me and I could hear and feel a loud thunk and glass shattering. The car stopped and dad flung himself out. Dean’s just sitting there, unmoving, looking at the broken windshield in front of him. I'm crying, right? Completely confused about what’s going on. Then dad comes and rips Dean out of the car. His hands are bloody. He shakes Dean, yelling at him. ‘What did you do? What did you do! You killed her! You killed Mary, Dean!’ My brother didn’t say anything. Just stared blankly at him. Dad gave him a backhand on the cheek, and he didn't even react.” Sam’s voice wavers between calmly telling the story, to wobbling any time he slips into present tense while retelling. “Dad let Dean go and went to the back of the car. I could hear him wailing. Dean just stood where he was left for an eternity, then he went to the back of the car too. I turned around in my seat, but I couldn't see anything because he opened the trunk. When he comes back he's carrying a warning triangle. He opens the door on my side and tries to unbuckle me. He can’t, so he gets a knife from the glove compartment and cuts me loose. He’s got this bloody smear in his cheek from where dad backhanded him. He takes my hand, carrying the warning triangle in his other hand, and says ‘ _Close your eyes, Sammy_ ’. His voice is completely devoid of feelings, like he doesn’t care at _all_. I do as he says, and he leads me back, past dad. I remember hearing dad cry, telling mom to get up, that everything will be alright, and that he needs―” Sam abruptly stops talking.

“ _Ssh, ssh._ Just breathe, Sammy. I understand it’s hard talking about this. Take your time. Take all the time that you need,” Nick coos. The heavy breathing that follows isn’t breathing of pleasure, even if there are small noises that sounds like kissing. Dean thinks it must be Nick trying to calm and comfort Sam. He wants to gag.

Dean’s cold all over, tense and itching for Sam to go on, and at the same time horrified to listen. Sam’s telling Nick things that Dean doesn’t fucking _remember_. 

“I’ve only told this to three people before. One of them was my therapist,” Sam confesses.

“Mmh. I’ve got all the time in the world, Sam. No pressure. Go on when you’re ready,” Nick coaxes.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be so descriptive?”

“I’ve been to war, Sam,” Nick says, voice riddled with amusement. “There’s nothing you can describe that can shock me. Tell me the full memory. It feels to me, like you need to talk about it.”

“Um. Okay, so.. Dean leads me past mom and dad. I keep my eyes closed until we’ve passed them. But I open my eyes and there’s something on the ground that catches my eyes, starkly coloured in the light from the car. Like a piece of a broken bowl, full of dark red, squishy bits with lighter parts, and blonde hair underneath. I don’t understand what it is straight away. Not until I turn my head to look over my shoulder and see dad cradling mom. I _know_ it’s mom because they’ve said so, and I recognise her clothes. But… she has no face. There’s only a bloody mess. I can see white teeth on a partial jaw, an eyeball hanging on a thread. Huge parts of her skull are just _gone_. That’s when I realise what the broken bowl I saw was. Dean repeats to me to close my eyes and squeezes my hand. I do, but it’s too late. It’s seared into my brain.”

“Must be a pretty terrifying experience for a kid.” 

“Yeah. Anytime I think of it, it comes rushing back. The smell of exhaust fumes. The bloody smear on Dean’s cheek. The crunch under our feet. The crisp bite of the night air. Dad desperately telling mom it’s going to be alright. Dean’s warm hand. The pain in my chest. We walk for what seems forever before we stop and Dean tells me I can open my eyes. We’re maybe 300 feet away. Dean puts the triangle in the middle of the lane. He’s like a robot. I’m still crying and he asks me why. Like our mum isn’t lying dead on the road behind us, and dad isn’t having a complete breakdown.” Sam pauses with a small, humourless chuckle, then takes a deep breath. “Um. I complain that my chest hurts, so he lifts my shirt and sees the bruise from the seatbelt starting to form. I remember him taking off his jacket to get to his tee. He takes it off and goes to pack it with dirty snow from the roadside. Most snow had melted, but there was snow in hard piles by the side, left from plowing, right? He had to kick it really hard to get some loose. So he made an ice pack with his T-shirt and pressed it against my chest to make the bruise hurt less. But then I started freezing and he put his jacket on me. All the time he’s all blasé. Completely emotionless. A car came by and Dean waved for them to stop. Explained to the driver that there had been an accident and that I needed to go to the hospital and be checked over. I remember being scared. Scared of my brother too, because he was so robotic.”

Dean suddenly sits up, pushes the phone off of him and gets out of bed. Nick sits up and looks at him as he starts pacing back and forth. His heart is racing. He goes to the nightstand to snatch up his cigarettes. He takes one out of the pack and puts it in his mouth, but his hands are shaking so hard that Nick takes the lighter from his hand and helps him light it. Dean takes three short, shallow drags on the cigarette and exhales from his nose. “ _Fuck_. I don’t remember that. I don’t remember any of that! How the hell can he remember all that? He was _four_ , for fuck sake!”

“People respond differently to trauma, darling, you know that.”

“Yeah, but _fuck_!” Dean goes back to pacing. “Everything after mom’s head split on the windshield, is just a blank space for me. All I remember is the accident on an endless repeat. Could Sam be making all this shit up? Jesus Christ. I couldn’t even tell you what time of the year it happened. You’d asked me, I’d say it was summer, because I remember being shirtless when arriving to the hospital, but I don’t actually remember how we got to the there, or what happened at the hospital, or how and when we got home. To be honest, the whole fucking year afterwards is kinda blurry.” He sucks in another three rushed mouthfuls of smoke, letting the smoke out harshly, blowing downward. He rubs a hand over his face. 

Nick remains calm and quiet, watching him, like he’s not sure what to say or do, so he does nothing.

“We got any benzo left?” Dean asks.

Nick springs into action, rolling off the bed and strides over to his jacket, hanging over a chair. He fishes out the pastille box out of a pocket, takes two pills and hands them to Dean. He turns to get a bottle of water, but Dean dry-swallows. Benzo are tranquilizers, used to treat anxiety, panic attacks, and sometimes as muscle relaxants. They’re literally ‘chill pills’. This is the first time Dean’s taken them for their actual purpose, not to get high. He takes a swig of water when Nick hands him a bottle, then resumes pacing, stress-smoking. Nick stands off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest, head bowed, tracking Dean with his eyes - guarded and concerned.

On the bed, the phone keeps playing. Dean’s missed out on some of what Sam’s said, but now his focus shifts back to the recording. There are fucking kissing sounds, and Dean wants to fucking destroy something.

“We lost both our parents that day,” Sam says on the recording. “They used to drink before the accident, but it was happy drinking and celebrations. After mom died, dad started drinking heavily, and he got mean and violent. He told me that when my brother saw mom, he’d grabbed the steering wheel and yanke―”

“ **NOOO!** You sonnova bitch! I didn’t do that!! You can’t fucking believe that!!” Dean yells and lunges for the bed. But there’s nothing to fight, so instead he just kicks the frame. Nick’s suddenly there, holding him back, restraining him. “I didn’t! I swear to God, Nick, I didn’t! I―” he babbles, trying desperately to convince Nick.

“Shhh. I know, baby. Calm down. Breathe. I know you didn’t. Keep listening. Trust me, and keep listening.”

Dean’s emotions are in a turmoil. He’d known dad blamed him, but _that_ was an outright lie. Sam and Dean had never talked about what happened that night, as far as Dean can remember. And however mad he’s at Sam for rejecting him, it feels desperately important that he doesn’t believe that lie.

Apparently, Nick’s had the same thought, while in bed with Sam. Dean’s missed something, because when he refocuses, Nick’s talking. “...a few things that doesn’t add up in your story. I’m not calling you a liar, darling, but when you hear something told as an absolute truth as a child, you accept it as a truth and rationalise irrational details. To my ears, your brother didn’t kill your mom.”

“How do you mean? These memories are really vivid to me. And he’d used to say that he killed mom so he could kill me too, when we fought sometimes,” Sam says, but with an oddly hopeful lilt of his voice.

Nick hums on the recording. “But he too was a child, and both of you experienced quite a trauma that night. Wasn’t he too told he killed your mom?”

“Yeah. What are the details you’re thinking of?”

“Were you close to the pub?”

“No.”

“Was your brother institutionalised in a mental clinic afterwards?”

“No.”

“Alright. It doesn’t sound like the car was in a roadside ditch when you tell it.”

“It wasn’t. It was in the middle of the lane.” Sam doesn’t sound defensive at all. He answers every one of Nick’s question with open curiosity.

“A two lane road?”

“Yeah.”

“So if you were in the middle of the wrong lane, why did your brother place the triangle behind the car?”

“No, no. We weren’t in the wrong la…” Sam trails off. 

Nick hums. “You see it now? If Dean yanked the steering wheel, you wouldn’t be facing forward in the right lane.” There’s a prolonged silence, then Nick speaks again. “I’m not saying your dad deliberately lied to you. But maybe he couldn’t cope with the fact that he’d killed the woman he loved, and the shock of it was so great, so his mind created a false memory. It happens. If you were picking up your mom from the pub, what were she doing in the middle of the road, so far away from it? I'm thinking, you’re dad was distracted by arguing with your brother, your mom was drunk like a cow, walking home by the roadside, then stepped, or staggered, out in front of the car, too close for anyone to break in time. The cold carelessness your brother displayed, that you see as proof, was most likely just him in deep shock, having had front row tickets to see his mom's head explode. Doesn’t that sound more plausible?”

“It… it does, actually. I wish somebody had pointed this out to me earlier.”

“Nobody did?”

“No. My friends, that I told in my teens, didn’t think of it. They were just horrified. And my therapist was only interested in how it made me feel, not clearing out what actually happened. Thank you.”

“You seem relieved about it?”

“Yeah…” There’s a shuffling sound, like somebody moving in bed. 

Nick lets go of Dean to pause the recording. “I think you should wait until the benzo has kicked in until we listen to the rest.”

“Why? ‘S there hardcore porn happenin’ next?”

“Not at all. Sam embraced the version you’d given me of what happened, instantly and with relief. He really didn’t want to see you as your mom’s murderer. So after this, he wanted to talk, rather than have sex. I’m crap at knowing what to say when dealing with other people’s trauma. That’s always been Mikey’s department. I just keep my mouth shut and listen. Seems like that’s all your brother needed to run his mouth. But you should calm down a bit before you hear me needling him for the reason he doesn’t want you in his life.”

Dean holds up his hands, palms out. “Okay, fine. I’ll go walk it off.”

“I’ll come with.”

“No. ‘S cool. Just… I’m fine, alright?”

Nick doesn’t look convinced, but he lets Dean throw on some clothes, take his cigarettes, and leave.

It’s scary shit, hearing things you’ve done, that you can’t remember. Usually, you get recounted stupid shit you’ve done when you’re blackout drunk. There’s been a couple of instances in the army too, when Dean was sober. Instances when they were under attack, and things got intense. People have told him what happened, but _he_ can’t remember it. It hadn’t been a huge problem, then. Apparently, he’d kept his head calm, done what he needed to do, and been capable of quick thinking, unperturbed by gory events. Then his mind had just blotted out bits and pieces, like a censored CIA report released to the public.

He _tries_ to remember what Sam talked about. He really tries to remember being torn out of the car and yelled at, going back to open the boot and get the triangle, cutting Sam loose, leading him away from the scene, caring for his bruise, stopping a car for help. But the most his brain supplies him with is an image of breath misting from cold. That’s it. And that might just be a construct since Sam said there were hard packed, dirty piles of crusted snow by the roadside. He _knows_ Sam had sustained injury in that accident. Two fractured ribs, if he remembers correctly. And he has a vague memory of a banded red bruise on Sam’s tiny little torso. That memory isn’t from the scene of the event. It’s from Sam crying in his bed.

Dean cringes inwardly, just thinking about it. Sam was such a tiny kid. Back then, Dean’d been completely convinced it was his fault, and he’d been riddled with guilt, trying his best to make it up to Sam. He’d believed dad when he said ‘You killed your mom’. But he’s an adult now, and looking at these memories in hindsight, it just pisses him off. _It. Wasn’t. His. Fault._

He’s preoccupied by thoughts centered around the accident, successfully avoiding to think of _how_ Nick has gotten this information, during his brisk walk around the neighbourhood. Finally he can feel the benzo kicking in. His muscles get more relaxed, and that haunted feeling that itches under his skin, making him want to run or fight, diminishes. He’s still on edge, still sharp, when he gets back. But he’s handling it better. Nick’s waiting outside the motel door. Back leaned against the wall, cigarette pinched between his lips, and arms crossed over his chest. Despite the relaxed pose, he looks tense, until he spots Dean, and straightens up. “You good?”

“Yep, I’m good. Let’s do this,” Dean answers, fake-chipper, and gives him a pat-slap on his shoulder.

* * *

“You seem relieved about it?” Nick asks Sam.

“Yeah…” The sheets rustle when Sam sits up. “It changes things, you know? I told you, we lost both our parents that day. Dad’s always claimed to love me, right? But if my brother really did kill mom, then it couldn’t be true. Because after the accident…” Sam takes a deep breath. “I’m not boring you, am I? If you’re just here to get your rocks off, then hearing about my fucked up childhood, kinda puts a dampener on things,” he says sheepishly.

Nick chuckles. “No, darling. I’m intrigued, if anything. Besides, I overshared yesterday. It’s only fair that you do it today.”

“Yeah. Okay. But tell me if I’m boring you.”

“I doubt you could, handsome. But fair enough.”

“Alright. Um. So, after the accident, dad went into a deep depression. I didn’t know it then, of course. But looking back as an adult… Anyway, he couldn’t even take care of himself, even less me and Dean. CPD should probably have stepped in and taken me and Dean, but dad managed to keep up appearance, and people probably didn’t want him to lose his kids while he was still grieving the loss of his wife, you know? So I became dependant on Dean.”

“Your brother took care of you?”

“Of us, yeah, mostly. When dad was too drunk to care, or remember.”

“I’d imagine you’d become very close?”

Sam breathes out through his nose. “Um. Not.. not quite. I was afraid of him, and hated him, because he killed mom. I mean, I thought he did, back then. And dad started treating us differently. In his lucid moments, he’d be protective towards me, and standoffish towards Dean. As an adult, when I think back on how often and badly dad used to beat my brother, during the first years afterwards, it makes me sick to my stomach. But back then…” Sam clears his throat. “It’s not… I didn’t always hate him. I loved him too. I looked up to him, and we were each other’s comfort. He couldn’t be alone. Maybe he could, before, I don’t remember. But after that he turned needy and controlling. He always used to say that us Winchester boys needed to stick tog―”

“Winchester? I thought you said your name is Moore?”

Sam chuckles sheepishly. “Um, yeah. It is. Before I went to college I changed my name to Wesson, and when I got married, I took my wife’s name. I wanted to erase every trace of my family history. I couldn’t, because some things are in our DNA. It’s tainted. But I wanted a clean start. To be _normal_. You have to understand, how I grew up, it was so toxic. Violence was so normalised, I thought that was the way love worked. We were so _angry_ , all of us. I bottled it up. Dean was a pressure boiler, and dad… dad drank _and_ had a hair trigger. It was bad. I knew abuse was a thing, but I didn’t get that it applied to us, since we loved each other. I didn’t actually get it, until a certain event at college.”

“Your dad used your brother as a punching bag, and your brother used you?”

“Not really. Sure, Dean would hit me sometimes when I was a little shit, but when he got mad, he took it out on strangers or furniture. He was kinda protective? If that even makes sense.”

“Your dad ever smack you around?” Nick’s voice is calm and interested, unflapped and unjudging.

“Not until Dean left home,” Sam answers darkly.

“So what happened in college that made you realise how toxic the Winchester brand of love was?”

“I was fighting with my boyfriend, Brady. And I was being provocative. I’d get like that, in the face of other’s anger. I’m not a violent person, but I can use word as weapons, so I did. Brady lost it. He punched me, then staggered back, horrified, as if _he_ was the one that had been hit. He was instantly regretful, on the verge of tears. He said that we shouldn’t be together, because he loved me, and you don’t hurt the ones you love. And if we brought those sides out of each other, it was a bad relationship. Which is funny, if you consider how we’d use drugs together, and get each other into trouble. We didn’t break up then, because I wouldn’t let him go, and he really didn’t want to. But it was a wake up call for me. I mean, it was just a punch on the jaw. It was _nothing_ to me. Nothing broken, nothing bleeding, nothing that needed makeup and lies to cover up. To me it was just a marker, or a warning, that I’d pushed too far.”

“You and your brother, you still keep in touch?”

“No. We didn’t end on good terms. I loved my brother and all, but I also hated him. It’s complicated. But you’d understand, from what you told me yesterday.”

Nick hums. “What happened?”

“Um… so my brother is a very unpredictable individual. If he feels hurt or is angry with you, he can bottle it up for months, while you think everything’s alright. He’ll just play along, and then one day get you back for whatever perceived slight he imagines you’ve caused him. Then he acts as if anything is hunky dory again, once he’s punished you. He’s not one who talks about his feelings, and he can hide them really well. So he’d do something, right? And go ‘ _That’s_ for that thing you did back in October’, when it was already May. And you had no idea, you’d hurt him, or angered him, back when it happened. I loved my brother. I _needed_ him. But I feared him too, because of this. And just before he left, he pulled one of his vengeance stunts on me. And it was way out of line.”

“What did he do?”

“I was in love with a girl, Amy. I took her to prom. She disappeared, and when I found her, Dean was fucking her. And he’s gay, so I _know_ he only did it to get back at me for something. As if breaking my heart wasn’t enough, she got pregnant. She claimed the kid was mine, which it wasn’t, because we’d never had sex, and I didn’t want anything to do with her afterwards. But she tried to save face, and her parents demanded I marry her and take responsibility. It was a complete mess that lasted for two years. I told dad the truth, when he wondered why I didn’t just demand a paternity test and get myself cleared.”

“Why didn’t you? Those things are fairly accurate, aren’t they?”

Sam huffs. “ _Yeah_ , if you’re not closely related.”

“Hmm. I guess a brother would count as very closely related. So how did you get out of it? _Did_ you get out of it?”

“I did. It’s the one time dad really came through for us. He got pissed off at the girl for lying. He publicly declared that he was the father. Said that he repeatedly had bought sex from her. It caused quite a stir, I can tell you that. The paternity test ‘proved’ him to be the father, and she tried to change her story a couple of times, trying to claim she’d been raped. But it was too late. Nobody believed her once she’d changed her story more than once. Dad still went to jail for six months for statutory rape, just so Dean and I would get a chance to live the lives we chose.”

“What happened to Amy?”

“Her reputation was ruined in our town, but she eventually met a guy who didn’t have a problem with her having a kid. They’re married and are living in Texas.”

“And that was the last time you saw your brother?”

“No. He came home on leave from the army a couple of times. He didn’t say sorry, or even act as if he’d done something wrong. I hated him. Then he showed up at my house recently, acting as if things were totally fine between us, telling me he wanted to be a family again. I told him to get out. I’ve fought so hard to get a normal life, to get away from the destructive behaviours we learned. It wasn’t easy. And I know that if I let him back in, it’ll all crumble. I felt it the moment he stepped inside my door.”

“Maybe he too wants a normal life, and get away from those destructive behaviours? Why not give him a chance?”

“No,” Sam says decisively. “It wouldn’t work. You know how when you run into an old classmate, or coworker, that you haven’t seen for a decade. You instantly fall into the dynamics you had when you knew them. And that’s people you weren’t necessarily close with. The closer you were with them, the harder those patterns are to break. And I was _dependant_ on him. He was the cornerstone in my life, for the greater part of my upbringing. Our relationship was fraught with drama. And he was so God damned controlling. Deciding who I could be friends with, if I was allowed to do things on my own or not, what girls I should be interested in. You have no idea. But I felt it the moment he stepped inside. I felt _me_ reverting to who I was before. I don’t want that. He wants a normal life? Good for him. But I’m _not_ going to be part of it. Just because he’s my brother, I don’t have to forgive him. I know he’s a victim too, but I. Don’t. Care. I’ve got my shit together without him. It’s up to him to get his shit together without me. I don’t want him in my life, in any way.” Sam’s voice is tight with controlled anger.

“Sssh. No need to get upset, darling. I’m just asking, not judging.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. Sensitive subject. I’m―”

* * *

Nick shuts the recording off. The silence in the room is thunderous in its wake. 

Dean’s face down on the bed, breathing into the pillow. Nick’s lying on top of him, nose against his shoulder, every exhale spreading warmth in the fabric of Dean’s shirt. His arms are relaxed, bracketing Dean. His body’s relaxed to the point of deadweight, but he’s too still, too quiet, to be inwardly at ease. He’s waiting for Dean’s reaction.

Dean honestly couldn’t say at which point they ended up in this exact position. All he knows, is that it’s the most calming thing in the world. Inside, he's anything but calm. Sam had made it sound so fucking dark. As if dad lay on the couch drunk all day and only got up to box Dean around. Sure, there'd been days like that. But not _all the time_. 

After dad had crashed the company, he'd still worked. He'd done odd jobs as a handyman or construction worker. He'd cooked, done homework with them, talked, been nice to their friends. He'd clock out later―drank himself into oblivion in the evenings. He usually remembered to make sure they brushed their teeth and went to bed before he got too drunk. And when he didn’t, Dean had made sure it happened. No big deal.

Damn right, Dean had monitored who Sam hung out with! That Ruby chick had offered Sam _heroin_ for fuck sake! Sam was fucking fourteen at the time. If Dean hadn’t put an end to _that_ friendship… What was he supposed to do? Tell _dad_? Sam had made it sound like dad never laid a hand on him, which wasn’t true. If dad had gotten whiff of that… Yeah, no. Dad was the true unpredictable individual. When he was drunk, he could be really nice and understanding, just as likely as he could be mean and hard handed. And his mood could change from one second to the next.

Didn’t Sam get it? Sam had been a scrawny ass shrimp until he hit his final growth spurt. And he’d mouth off to the bigger boys trying to pick on him. Of fucking _course_ , he had to keep an eye on Sam! Ain’t nobody but dad and him, had the right to put bruises on Sam’s skin.

Fuck, when Sam spoke, it sounded like Dean was some psycho that shouldn’t have made it past the psychological evaluation in the army. Which was bullshit. He’d done just fine and been more stable than ever once he got in. If anything, the messed up parts of their childhood had helped him. You get knocked down, you go back up. Something went wrong, you dealt with it, and saw to that your basic needs were met even if the support line faltered. You looked out for your squad. 

Dean speaks at long last, turning his head to the side. “You did good. Good job.”

“That’s it?”

“What else do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, baby darling. He said some rather harsh things about you.”

“Yeah? So? That’s on him. _You_ did good.” 

Nick shifts on top of him, sliding down a bit to the side so he can look at Dean. For whatever reason, Nick’s not satisfied with the answer. Dean can see that by the troubled expression.

“You know, it wasn’t as bad as he painted it,” Dean offers, trying to placate and remove the troubled wrinkle between Nick’s eyebrows.

Nick hums. “Two people can remember the same situation very differently, Dean. He might have felt it like this.”

“He thinks I’m some kind of evil that will take over his life, and he won’t even give me a chance. He can fuck himself. Obviously, even dad knew more about loyalty than he does. Traitorous sonnova bitch.”

“At least now we know how we’ll get to him,” Nick says, lip curling up to a smirk in the corner.

Dean’s been worrying that Nick would take Sam’s side after hearing this. It’s a relief hearing that they’re still on the same page. “Oh yeah? _How_?”

Nick tells him. Dean feels like a fool for not thinking about it himself.

* * *


	47. Doubts

* * *

# Doubts

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

“I know why _I_ can’t sleep. But why can’t _you_ sleep?” Dean asks that night. Their motel room has two beds, yet they sleep together. It’s a tight fit, but Dean wouldn’t want it any other way. The first night they’d shared a motel room together, Nick had rolled out of Dean’s bed after some post-coital cuddling, aiming for the other bed. Dean had asked ‘Where are you going?’ and Nick had come back without a word of protest. No matter how narrow the bed, they’d made themselves fit.

Nick’s spooned up against his back, arm around his chest, leg hooked in the bend of Dean’s leg. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he mumbles.

Dean’s quiet for a while. His brain won’t shut off, flitting from topic to topic. His text convo with Mike earlier this evening for one. 

`**Dean:** I’m in the city you work. Tell me the address and I’ll stop by. ;) `

`**Mike:** As much as I REALLY want to see you, it’s not a good idea. I’m swamped. I can come to wherever you’re staying once I get off? I miss you horrendously much! Just tell me where you are, and I’ll come.`

Dean hadn’t answered that. Mike still wants him stuffed away like a dirty secret. It doesn’t stop hurting. Mike will learn what the price for that kind of bullshit is. The next time he’ll see Dean, Dean’s gonna be married to Nick, having Nick in tow. Mike needs this shit rubbed in his face. Dean has a plan for this too. He hasn’t shared it with Nick yet.

Nick. Dean wonders what Nick had said and done, to make Sam throw caution overboard and divulge in that level of reckless intimacy―both physically, and mentally. What are they, fucking made for each other? Who the fuck risks marriage and career on someone they only just met? Especially if it’s true that Sam’s only cheated on Jess once before. And Sam… Sam’s gorgeous. It’s disgusting that Dean can even think that, since they’re fucking brothers. But he ain’t blind, and they’ve been separated for more than a decade. Sam’s virtually a stranger. A tall, _hot_ stranger, with dimples, soft brown hair, and puppy eyes that he ( _Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_ ) asked Nick to sleep with. What the _HELL_ was he thinking? Jesus. What’s Nick even doing here, when he could so easily get guys like Sammy, that not only look great, but aren’t complete dumps of waste on the inside? Why― 

“You’re still thinking too loudly,” Nick murmurs.

“Did he get to see you naked?” Dean regrets the question the moment it’s out of his mouth. It exposes how vulnerable he feels about this.

Nick huffs and tugs him a bit closer. “No. I can’t even stand to look at myself naked without disgust. There’s no way in hell I’m going to allow flawless individuals like you and your brother see me.”

“ _Flawless_. Dude, have you seen my leg? And why not? You think we’d be repulsed?” Dean’s never been bothered by his scarring. It was the pain and the loss of motor skills that messed him up. Shit, he missed running. Pushing himself to go faster, further. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Really?” This shocks Dean. Not because it reflects on how gruesome Nick’s scarring might be, but because it means some asshole had reacted like a fucking dick to something Nick was sensitive about and couldn’t control.

“Mmh. The lights were off. I was naked. She touched my scarred side and exclaimed ‘Oh my God, this is _gross_ ’.”

“Jesus Christ. That’s fucked up.” No shit. If you were already self conscious, and somebody said that… “What didja do?”

“I responded, ‘That happens when your flesh is on fire and melts, while you have scalding metal shrapnel dug into your innards’, and proceeded to give her a very detailed description of what happened to my body when that grenade went off. She had to run to the toilet and throw up. I left before she came back out. She’d killed my boner with her comment anyway,” Nick tells him, voice floating and serene.

Dean twists around in bed to face Nick. Nick has his eyes closed. “Shit, man. That’s rough. I’m sorry. But you know I’d never react like that. And I’d bet my life, Sam wouldn’t either. We’re not that kind of dickbags.” Nick hums noncommittally, like he doesn’t believe it. “I’m serious, Nick.” He can’t say why he’s defending Sam too on this. But he can’t, by any stretch of imagination, see Sam be that inconsiderate to someone he sleeps with.

Nick opens his eyes half way to look sleepily at Dean for a beat. Then he closes them again. “It’s irrelevant. It’s not going to happen.”

“Does it hurt, when touched?”

“No. It feels alien or numb mostly. My pain comes from inside, where the shrapnel made a mess of my entrails. If you’d cut me open, you’d find me looking like Frankenstein on the inside.”

“Yeah, I ain’t gonna do that anytime soon.”

That statement makes Nick chortle and open his eyes. “Why, thank you, darling. One less thing to worry about,” he says, voice full of sarcastic mirth.

“I mean. It’s on my _to do_ list, so…” Dean jokes innocently. 

Nick laughs out loud and flips over to lie on his back. “I guess sleeping isn’t happening anytime soon either.”

Dean sits up and straddles Nick, holding himself up so Nick can scoot to the middle of the bed before settling. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Nick rubs his hands over Dean’s thighs. “We'll figure out how to pass time, in sure,” he purrs suggestively. 

But Dean, for once, doesn’t feel like it. “Yeah… hey, Nick. I know Sam must have made you think I was some psycho, controlling asshole that tormented him―“

“No,” Nick cuts him off. “That’s not what I heard him say. I heard him say that you were an eight year old boy that took the responsibility to care for your younger brother, while at the same time trying to be a kid yourself, as well as trying to cope with a life-shattering trauma, guilt, and an abusive, negligent father.” When Dean doesn’t immediately answer, Nick goes on. “Siblings fight. That’s a thing. Your dad failed you miserably by loading the guilt on you and making Sam fear you. If he’d really, truly believed that you killed your mom, he would have made sure you were locked up in an asylum and kept away from Sam to protect him.” Nick sits up and looks Dean in the eyes, alert and concerned. “Baby, listen to me. Even if Sam doesn’t want you in his life, he’d owe you an explanation as to why, not a door shut in your face. It isn’t right that he won’t even talk to you, to give you both closure. Mike won’t talk to me either, and that fucks me up. You’re doing the right thing here. What we discussed? It’ll fuck him over. But then you’ll be out of his life, just like he wanted, and he’ll be left dealing with the lies he’s told his wife. It’s a just dessert.”

Dean leans his forehead against Nick’s. “Thanks,” he says quietly. He hadn’t even know he was having doubts about it, until Nick reassured him.

* * *


	48. Invasion Of Privacy

* * *

# Invasion Of Privacy

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

Sometimes Dean does stupid shit. He’ll admit to that. Sometimes, doing the stupid shit, is punishment in itself. This morning, while Nick was still asleep, Dean’s masochistic curiosity had gotten the better of him. He’d overstepped. He’d taken Nick’s phone, gone outside, found the recording, (Nick should really start using a lock for his screen.)(Not that Dean uses one.) and hit play. 

He can’t stomach listening to the full recording. He has to shut it off, wanting to throw up. He goes back inside and throws the phone on the unused bed, grabs his jacket and his smokes and goes for a walk. He’s nauseated. Sam’s voice is ringing in his ears. “ _Oh my God, Dean!... Jesus, jesus, Deeeeeeaaan!_ ” Sticky and slapping sounds, Nick purring “ _You like that, huh?_ ” and Sam keening that he does, in fact, like that very much.

That Nick had introduced himself as Dean makes it a cruel joke. If Dean didn’t know it was Nick and Sam doing the fucking, the recording would have turned him on, which is its own level of gross mindfuckery. He gets how Nick would see it like poetic justice. Sure, he does. But hearing his kid brother crying out his name during sex just makes him cringe. It’s a perverse level of dirty-bad-wrong. Granted, he’d told Nick that Sam and he was almost incestuously close, in his dream memories. Key word though, is _almost_. Now it just makes him feel dirty, at the same time as his body’s crawling with low self-esteem, insecurity, and jealousy.

When he comes back two hours later his leg is throbbing painfully. Nick’s fully dressed, sitting up in bed, back against the wall, playing Candy Crush or Pet Rescue Saga on his phone, judging by the sounds coming from it. It takes one look for Dean to know that Nick is pissed the hell off. His lips drawn into a thin line, his nostrils flared and the lines of his body’s tense. His gaze flicks upwards when Dean closes the door. His gaze is dark, and his face reddens at the sight of Dean. That ain’t an embarrassed blush, that’s for damned sure.

Dean hunches his shoulder, bends his head, averts his gaze, turns his body partly away from him, making himself smaller. If he was a dog, his tail would be firmly tucked between his legs and his ears flattened against his skull. He holds his hands up in submission. “I’m sorry. I shouldna dunnit.”

“Is that so…” Nick’s voice is measured and cold.

“I’m really sorry, okay? I know I did wrong and I regret doin’ it. I promise, it will never happen again.” 

Nick snorts derisively. “Did you go through my photos and texts too?”

“ _Christ_ , no. Just the sound file, I swear it.” Dean looks up. “Why? You hiding somethin’?” The question enrages Nick further, eyes widening and scowl drawing down deeper. Dean quickly ducks his head in submission again, but Nick’s already up and moving, stalking towards him. “Sorry, okay? I’m sorry. You can punch me. I deserve it,” he placates at the same time as he cowers away from Nick, backing closer to the wall. 

“God damned _right_ you deserve it.” Nick stops in front of him, looms. Nick’s anger, unlike Dean’s, burns cold. Dean’s the explosive type. He’ll shout, act out in wide gestures. Nick’s focused, tight, and right now―well earned. The invasion of privacy, by taking his phone, it’s not something you do to people you’re close with and respect. Dean’s lived in Mike’s apartment for years, known of his lies, and _still_ hadn’t gone through drawers in the private office, or opened the drawer in Mike’s night stand. There were other places he hadn’t explored either, for the lack of verified permission. It’s a matter of respect and trust. Even if Mike had lost Dean’s trust, Dean still hadn’t done it. And Mike, for all his stalkerish calling and texting, had never invaded Dean’s privacy either. “You wanted to listen to the recording again, all you had to do, was ask.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.” Dean keeps his gaze averted, not wanting to provoke. It’s a lame ass excuse, and he knows it. His voice comes out weak with the knowledge of his own wrongdoing. 

“Then you should have waited.”

Dean shifts his gaze to meet Nick’s icy one without moving his body or head, only his eyes. The moment he does, Nick slaps him hard. His cheek burn with it, the eye on that side watering on its own accord. Nick grabs his jaw and forces him to look at him. 

“Did you look at _anything_ except the recording?” Nick demands. 

“I didn’t. I swear.”

Nick stares at him, gaze boring in, searching for the truth. He relaxes, lips no longer compressed, scowl lessened. “Fair enough. I trust that this won't happen again.”

“It won’t. I promise.”

“I'll take your word for it.” Nick leans their foreheads together, the grip on Dean’s jaw loses its forcefulness. 

“We good?” Dean asks, unsure if he's considered to have gotten proper punishment. It doesn’t feel like it, for the breach of trust.

“We good, baby darling,” Nick confirms.

Dean lets his shoulders drop from their hunched, submissive position, shifts to face Nick fully, and relaxes. He closes his eyes and rests his hands lightly on Nick’s hips. 

“I saw you limping when you came in. You in pain?” Nick asks. His tone is sullen, but not as tight and clipped as before.

“My leg’s throbbing. I over exerted myself, trying to get away from the demons in my head,” Dean answers truthfully, keeping his eyes closed. 

Nick lets go of his face. Dean hears him take a blister strip out of his pocket and pop two pills out of it. “Open your mouth,” he bids Dean. 

Dean complies, dry swallows. He used to think that was hard. He doesn’t any more, used to it as he is. His cheek stings like pins and needles from the harsh slap. Nick’s lips, softly pressed against his own, takes him by surprise. He gets what it means. He’s forgiven. “You shoulda punched me. Hard.”

Nick drags his lips over his red cheek. “I would. You deserve it. But we need you to look your best.”

“Later then?”

Nick scoffs. “No. You've gotten your punishment. Told you, we're good.” He wraps his arms around Dean and nuzzles the stinging cheek, kissing it.

Dean wishes he’d gotten the shit beat out of him instead. Maybe that would have distracted him from the things he’d heard on the recording.

* * *

Nick leans in for a goodbye kiss before Dean drops him off, but halts just inches away. “You all set?”

“Yup.”

“No second thoughts?”

“Nope.”

“Then good luck,” Nick says and closes the distance for a quick kiss. Then he opens the door and gets out.

“Hey, Nick?” Dean says, just as Nick is about the close the car door.

“What?”

“Why did Star Wars episodes 4, 5 and 6 come before 1, 2 and 3?” Dean asks. Nick shrugs in bemusement. Dean pitches his voice in character and says, “Because in charge of scheduling, Yoda was.” 

Nick huffs in pained amusement. “Oh, that’s lame,” he complains, but chuckles all the same. He shuts the car door and Dean calls out “Break a leg,” just before it closes. Nick throws a little wave over his shoulder as he walks away.

Dean starts the car and pulls into traffic, adding a muttered “Preferably Sam’s,” under his breath.

Showtime.

* * *


	49. Timing

* * *

# Timing

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

The brain is a curious thing. It has no timing whatsoever. During the drive Dean is trying very hard―and failing miserably―not to imagine Sam and Nick together in bed. At least Nick won’t take his shirt off for Sam either. He’s not sure if he could have coped with that. He doesn’t want Sam to have anything that he can’t have. Nick must be feeling something akin to that, in relation to Mike, considering how fiercely pleased Nick gets anytime he gets something from Dean that Mike doesn’t.

It’s fucking absurd, really. He was dating Mike when Nick got wounded. It’s entirely possible that they were making love the very moment Nick’s skin was burning and his inside was torn to shreds in another part of the world. They’d been together for three months when― 

Dean’s brain comes to a screeching halt.

 

 

Nick got wounded three months into Mike and Dean’s relationship.

Mike started fetishing his scar, three months into their relationship.

 

“Sonnova bitch!”

What the hell does that even _mean_?

He doesn’t have time to think about it, because he reaches his destination. He parks the car on the driveway outside of Sam’s house, and gets out. He’s nervous. There’s no need to be nervous, really. This fails, they’ll have to figure something else out. Hell, if this fails, he can tell Jess who he really is, and tell her about Sam’s vasectomy. Her heart would be broken by that last thing, so then they _could_ go with Nick’s suggestion of filming Sam and releasing the sex tape of him with Nick. Sam’s initial lie to Jess would already have broken her heart and she’d been torn between leaving him to be a mom or forgiving him and staying, which he does _not_ deserve.

He rings the doorbell and waits.

And waits.

Jess opens the door just as Dean contemplates to press the button again. “Dean,” she says with a surprised expression.

He gives her a big smile. “Yeah. I woulda called ahead, but we haven’t exchanged phone numbers, so I took a chance. I forgot my toolbox here the other day? Gonna need it tomorrow or the day after.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Is this a bad time? I see you’re all dolled up and looking even more gorgeous than usual. You on your way out to a party or something?”

“Thank you.” Jess smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “No.” The word comes out more like a sigh. “I’m not going anywhere. Come on in. You want coffee?” She steps aside to let him in.

* * *

Jess isn’t happy. She’s trying to hide the fact from Dean, but he knows. And he knows _why_ too. He’s seen her pink calendar. This is the day Sam should be at home, doing his duty. He isn’t, because Nick had coaxed Sam to meet up with him again. Dean had listened to the call, realising that his little brother has a major crush. While it was understood that Sam would never leave Jess, and Nick had told Sam he was only in town temporarily, Sam still jumped through hoops to be with Nick. Convenient, but also nerve wracking and nauseating. What if Nick came to prefer Sammy? What if― 

Jess breaks him out of his downward spiral of self-doubt by kicking his shin.

Dean startles, spilling some coffee from the cup he’s holding. “I’m sorry, what? I spaced out for a moment.” He puts the cup down and sucks at the joints of his fingers to get the coffee off of them.

Jess giggles and gets up from her chair to get a paper towel. “I noticed.” She comes back to the table and wipes up the spilled coffee. “I said, sometimes you remind me of my husband. There are some gestures you do, and when you do them… I can’t put my finger on it, but they’re just so Sam-like.”

“Maybe we’re brothers,” Dean says with a shit eating grin.

Jess laughs. “I sincerely doubt that.”

“Eyy. Could be. Maybe dad patted every kid on the head on the off chance it was his? I had one brother I didn’t know about. Michael might not have been the only one.” Dean gets up from his chair and walks over to the wall where there’s a photo of Sam and Jess. 

Jess goes to throw the paper towel away, chortling. “Okay, _that_ might be true, but I don’t think Sam’s one of them. What are the chances?”

“I dunno, baby mama. I mean look at him.” Jess comes to stand beside him, arms crossed over her chest and an amused expression on her face, like when you’re humouring somebody who lists ‘proof’ that the world is flat. Dean drapes his arm around her neck, letting it hang there loosely, and goes on unperturbed. “He’s got hazel green eyes, I’ve got green. He’s tall and broad shouldered, and I’m tall and broad shouldered. He’s got brown hair, and I’ve got brown hair. Although, my hair’s a lighter brown and goes blond in the sun, but still. Plus we’re both unfairly good looking. Could be plausible.”

Jess’ shoulders are shaking with held back laughter. She side eyes him with narrowed eyes. Dean dredges up a memory from seeing Sam flirt with a girl in his teens, and mimics the expression. He tilts his head to the side, chin bent inward, and smirks lopsidedly, trying to make his eyes look catty when he looks back at her. Suddenly there’s a spark of unsurety in her eyes. “But you’ve got freckles,” she states.

“I do, but my dad didn’t. Nor does Michael. In fact, he looks less like me than Sam does.”

Jess stares between the picture and Dean, her smile shifts from sceptical and humouring to something more insecure. “What? You really believe that?”

“Nah. Like you said, what are the chances, right? Besides, I don’t think Sam would be thrilled to get a man who’s engaged to another man, show up at his doorstep, claiming to be his brother. What’s his family like, anyway? I’ve seen pictures of your family on the walls, but not his.”

“I don’t know. He had a tough childhood. That’s about all I know. He’s never talked about it.”

“Huh.”

Their gazes are locked, and Dean doesn’t shift away or avert his eyes―allowing the silence to get a bit awkward and stretched―forcing Jess to become aware of how close they are, faking sexual tension he doesn’t actually feel.

There it is.

Jess breathing becomes careful, and her cheeks colour slightly.

Dean steps away. He lets his arm slide down and graze the small of her back when he withdraws it. Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to flirt with a girl. It’s the same as with a man, he just have to remind himself to do it, rather than be on auto pilot. 

Jess lets out a nervous giggle. “It’s not important. He was on the verge of sliding into a bad lifestyle when we met in college. It sounds stupid, but I’m glad for it, or we wouldn’t have met. I was a party girl, and Sam’s best friend Brady, was a sorority jock who moved in the same circles as me, as well as the more shady circles that Sam moved in. He introduced us. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Why am I telling you this?”

Dean sniggers and goes to sit by the table again. “I dunno. Because you know you can trust me, and that I know to keep my mouth shut about _anything_ that might make you unhappy if it got out?” He smirks and lifts his cup to his mouth, raising his eyebrow and giving her a pointed look.

“Can I trust you?” she implores. “Because my husband’s career…” she lets it hang. Bad lifestyle, shady circles, these are things that might be sensitive business for a politician. 

“Of course you can, Jessy-Bean. Nothing we say or do in private will ever get out. I promise, I won’t tell a soul.” Except Nick. But he’s not telling Jess that.

“Thanks.” Too trusting. How the hell can she be so trusting? One thing’s for sure―Jess hasn’t faced betrayal in her life. But hey. Maybe when she’s run into assholes, she’s triggered their protective sides, just like she did with Dean? It’s possible.

“So. Party girl, huh?” Dean asks and sips his remaining coffee.

Jess comes back and sits down across from him again. He stretches his legs out so they touch hers. She doesn’t pull away. “Yes. I was a real daddy’s girl, chaste and sheltered, while I lived at home. When I started college, there was no pressure to keep up appearance, and I let loose quite a bit. It may sound conceited to say so, but I was popular. I’ve always been. I made friends easily, and generally got invited to parties and activities.”

“Not conceited unless you look down on those who weren’t. I can see why you woulda been popular. Perky, positive attitude, kindhearted, and absolutely gorgeous.” Dean nudges her leg with his, smirking teasingly. She smiles, looks down on her cup, and fiddles nervously with it. “Especially now. Why are you so snazzed up, anyway? You knew I was coming?” he jokes and wiggles his eyebrows with a shit eating grin. She’s wearing a tight, short black skirt and a glittery black spaghetti-strap tank top, along with a pretty, glittery necklace with matching earrings. Her hair has been piled up in an artfully messy hairdo that Dean can’t figure out what’s keeping it up. He briefly wonders if Nick can make hairdos like that, or if he only does braids.

Jess chuckles. “Pfft. No it’s… Sam was supposed to be home. He called and said he’s going to be a bit late. It’s.. I’m ovulating.” She smiles an embarrassed smile.

“Aha. He’ll be coming home soon for some Boom-chicka-bow-wow. _Nice._ ”

Jess laughs and rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. You have no shame. But yes. That’s the idea anyway. Although, we haven’t had much _boom-chicka-bow_ lately. More like ‘duty calls’. That’s why I’m trying to make it more appealing for him,” she confesses.

Dean huffs. “Let me guess. The longer you’ve been trying, the less does he wanna do the do? Next thing you know, he’s gonna ask you to give it up and just get a dog instead.” Sam always wanted a dog. Dean remembers that.

Jess momentarily looks stricken. Then she looks away, disappointed look on her face. “He’s already suggested that,” she admits.

“Oh fuck. Am I right, thinking he’s been spending less and less time alone with you, the greater the pressure has become to succeed?”

Her eyes flick to his, the look in them confirms it.

He puts down the cup (without spilling this time), reaches across the table and takes her hand in his. Her nails are painted a pearly pink. “Hey… You’re gonna get pregnant, Jess. And when that happens, it’s gonna save your marriage too. The pressure and guilt he feels, will disappear, and he’ll feel like a man again. You know how frail the male ego is. If we can’t even handle being beaten at beer pong, how do you think we handle failure to knock up our wives?” He winks, and Jess lets out a rueful little laugh.

“I think so too. I know he loves me, and I love him. But he’s been acting more and more, I don’t know, guilty? The last year. And we still spend a lot of time together, but more often than not, he tries to do things with other people around. He’s very understanding, but doesn’t want to talk about it when the focus shifts to him. I think he worries too, that he’s the problem.”

_Oh, I bet. Sammy worries his ass off that you’ll figure out why you ain’t gettin pregnant. Especially if you’re pressuring him to go to the clinic with you._

He doesn’t say that, obviously.

“If he stays away, he _is_ the problem. You ever considered―”

Jess’ phone rings. Her hand slips from his and she gets up. “Excuse me, I’ve got to take this.”

He gestures for her to go ahead, and she walks out of the room to where her phone is in the foyer. He hears her answer “Hi, honey,” with chirpy voice, and walk into the living room. He can hear her talking, but not make out what she’s saying. His own phone vibrates. It’s a message from Nick. It reads “I’ll have him busy until 2200 at least.” Thinking about _how_ Nick will keep him busy, is nauseating. But he’ll have until 10 PM to finish.

He gets up and follows Jess. She’s standing in the living room by the wall opposite the door, just in front of a big wedding photo. She’s holding the phone against her ear and the other hand is pressed against her forehead, head hanging in disappointment. Her back is to him, so he can’t see her expression. He doesn’t need to. There’s a shelf reaching to her waist just in front of her along the wall. It has photo frames and decorative objects on it.

“But, honey, you _promised_ ― ...Yes. …*sigh* …. Okay. So when will you be home?... _Eleven_? But― ….fine. See you then…. Love you. Bye.” She hangs up and puts the phone down on the shelf in front of her, then stand there with her head bowed, trying to collect herself.

Dean sneaks up on her, puts his hands on the shelf, bracketing her. She sucks in a startled breath. He steps in close enough for his chest to graze her back and puts his lips just behind her ear. “I can help you.” She keeps very still, and doesn’t respond. “I’m healthy, clean, and even remind you a bit of him. He’d never have to know. I won’t leave marks. It’d save your marriage.” He moves one hand to her belly, cupping the lower half of it. His heart is hammering hard in his chest. He might have moved too soon. “Ignite the spark of life in here, and make you a baby mama for real.”

She draws a shuddering breath. “I… I’ve never cheated on my husband.”

“If you want, I’ll go with you to the clinic and simply donate. I can’t pay for it, but I’ll stud. You know I won’t come a’knocking, demanding to be part of your child’s life. And your time is running out. The older you get, the harder it will be.” He lets go of the shelf and moves both his hands to her waist, smoothing them slowly upward. “This way is easier. It’s your choice. I know you’re attracted to me, and I like you, Jess. I want you to be happy, which you’re not.” He kisses the delicate skin behind her ear, feeling her shudder. “I ain’t gonna force myself on you.” His hands have reached the side of her breasts, and he slides his hands forward to cup them, thumbing lightly over her nipples and feeling them peak. “But do this, and your wait will be over.” He nuzzles along her neck, noting how her breathing picks up, getting a bit ragged.

She twists around to face him, mouth slightly ajar, eyes wide and pupils enlarged. He rests his hands on her hips. Waits. Lets his eyes trail over her face, catch at the lips, licks his own. She’s staring at his face in return. Aroused? Definitely. But also unsure. Not telling him to stop, though. He lets his hand go around to cup her ass, pulls her lower body closer and rolls his hips in a slow circle, pressing them together. He’s not hard. Not yet. He’s gonna need more friction to get it up for a woman. Trust automatic reflexes. They work well enough. He knows they do. Anytime he’s had to play it straight and join the guys from the squad for an outing to a strip club, a lap dance would make him pop a boner if it was tactile enough, even if he didn’t get mentally turned on, or felt any desire for the stripper.

She hasn’t said yes. But he’s informed her that he intends to honour a no. Some people can’t tell the difference between a ‘no’, a ‘convince me’, when spoken through body language. They need a spoken word. He speaks sex fluently. Being drunk might impair his ability to read body language. He’s sober now, so when her hand comes up to press ever so lightly in the middle of his chest, he immediately stops, lets his hands go back to their position on her hips, puts an inch of space between their hips, but doesn’t pull away. It’s not a no. It’s an ‘I’m not sure’ and ‘can I trust you to stop?’

Jess looks at him for a moment, then drops her hand. Hesitantly she hooks a finger in his belt loop, giving it a miniscule tug―a nonverbal ‘go on’. It’s enough for him to slide his hands to her backside again and pull her back in. This time she shifts her feet a bit, to give him room in-between. He licks his lips, gaze flipping between her eyes and lips. He tilts his head slightly, leans a little bit closer, stops.

She licks her lips in response and meets him halfway. Once they kiss, Jess loses her shyness. Like if she could go this far, she might as well do the rest, as the infidelity was already committed. Desperation, four years of struggles and an increasingly distant husband had softened her up for a sin she would never have considered before. All Dean had to do was to offer.

Mission accomplished.

* * *


	50. The Right Thing To Say

* * *

# The Right Thing To Say

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

 

“How did it go?” Nick asks when he gets into the car.

“It went well. By the end I was pumping air. Once Jess sets her mind to something, she gives it her all,” Dean answers and pulls into traffic.

“Yeah? No problem getting it up for a lady?” Nick asks and fastens his seatbelt.

Dean blows a raspberry. “Nah. I’ve told you, enough friction and stuff’s gonna happen…. There were a coupla awkward moments. Hopefully she didn’t catch them.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Like when she grabbed my dick for the first time. Her hands are so small. I had to tell myself, ‘close your eyes and pretend she’s a twink’. And when I went down on her. I mean, come _on_. I’ve never dunnit before. Although, I told her I wasn’t very experienced with that, and that she should gimme pointers or tell me if I was making a fool of myself. I’m down there for her sake, not my own. If she’s to be believed, I did good. And I gotta tell you, Nicky, that self-lubricating shit women got going on, it’s real fucking practical.”

Nick throws his head back laughing. “Trust the fag to describe a pussy as practical.”

“Hey, it is, isn’t it? I’m fucking envious. I wouldn’t mind having a self-prepping ass, and be good and ready anytime I got a little horny.”

Nick guffaws. 

He finds it way more funny than it is, according to Dean.

“‘S funny,” Dean muses, “I’d never thought there’d come a day when I was nervous about _not_ knocking a chick up. But now I’m fretting about whether it took or not. Five times ought to do it, right? Christ. Would you _stop laughing_ , you little bitch!”

But nope. Apparently, Nick finds it too fucking funny. 

Asshole.

* * *

“ _Christ_! Geroff me, you dickbag,” Dean snipes and tries to dislodge Nick, who’s pressing him up against the motel door, making it impossible to get the key in the lock to open the fucking door. Dean’s had this growing feeling of unease during the car ride home. He can’t shake it.

“Oh, come on, baby, don’t squirm,” Nick mumbles into the skin of his neck and digs his fingers into his hips, pushing his erection against Dean’s ass.

How the fuck is he turned on?

“I said _get. Off_ ,” Dean grits out. He’s having very conflicting feelings when Nick bites him on the neck, because _Fuck!_ but also _Fuck off!_

“I’m trying to, darling,” Nick assures jokingly, and suckles at the bite mark he’s just left.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Not what I meant.” Nick doesn’t stop. One hand finds its way to Dean’s front to paw at his dick, the other comes around to slide around his chest, while Nick grinds steadily against his ass. Dean squeezes his eyes closed. He’s getting hard. Of course he is. Enough friction, things are gonna happen. But he’s torn, because his mind isn’t in it. He could just suck it up and let it happen. Have it over with. But… “I can fucking smell him on ya.”

“So we take a shower. I can smell her too, you know,” Nick insists and mouths at the skin along the backside of his jaw, unperturbed.

Dean takes a deep breath to steady himself, then he arches his back in a quick move, like an angry cat, or a bucking horse, dislodging Nick. “Dammit, Nick!” But Nick’s right back pressing up against him straight away. “ _Nicholas_!”

That does the trick.

Nick backs off with a frustrated hiss. “Fine.”

Dean leans his forehead against the door and sighs, suddenly filled with guilt. He never says no to sex. Never. He’s being unfair. It’s not Nick’s fault that he feels… he’s not sure what he feels, to be honest. Sensory and psychological overload, perhaps. He’s crawling with it. “I just ain’t feeling it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Nick’s voice is curt. Like it isn’t fine at all.

“Nick, I―”

“I said, it’s fine. Quit worrying and open the damn door.”

Dean’s tense when he finally gets the key in the lock. A look over his shoulder reveals Nick trying to look unruffled, and failing. _Fuck_. 

Dean opens the door and steps aside to let Nick in first. Nick strides past him. 

“You sure you don’t want to shower together?” Nick asks and removes his jacket. 

“Yeah.”

“You want to go first? Or should I?”

“You go ahead,” Dean urges. He wants any trace of Sam off of Nick. No scent lingering whatsoever. He had smelt it in Sam’s house too. Apart from the home carrying the notes of both Jess and Sam, Sam’s scent had been strong on the sheets. They’d smelt of _him_ , not of his aftershave or cologne. Still after all these years, it’s a scent that’s familiar and vaguely comforting. Sam hadn’t lied when he said they were each other's comfort. There were loads of times when dad was drunk that Dean had sought refuge in Sam’s bed, under the pretense of comforting Sam. He’d stopped when he was thirteen, but sometimes Sam had come to his room instead. He’d bed down at the bottom of the bed and Dean would complain about getting his feet in his face. They never mentioned it in the morning. Just got up and did their morning routine like the night had been spent in separate rooms. It was a moment of truce shrouded in darkness, no matter what hateful feuds went on between them during daytime.

Dean doesn’t remember when they stopped doing that.

Had they ever?

But now that scent clung strongly to Nick and it made Dean nauseous. His skin is already tingling like it’s replaying the day’s activity solely with sense memory.

It’s a relief when Nick makes quick work of washing up, then comes out smelling like himself.

Dean goes to clean himself. He does it quickly, then stands under the spray, just leaning his hands on the wall and bowing his neck. He stands there until the water turns cold, then remains under the icy spray until Nick startles him by banging on the door. “What?” he asks, but gets no reply. He shuts the water off and takes his time drying off, and brushing his teeth.

When he comes out, Nick’s already in bed. Nick lifts the cover for Dean, but Dean lies down on the other bed. “I’m sorry. Not yet, I…”

Nick huffs. “Forget it.” He grabs his phone, opens up one of those stupid games and starts playing with a discontent expression.

Dean lies still, just listening to the whoosing and plinking sounds of the game for a couple of minutes. The guilt intensifies with every second. “Nick. It’s not that I don’t want to, but―”

“Enough.” Nick turns his head and glares at him. “I said it’s fine. We’ve got different needs right now. If you’re lying over there, because you’re thinking that I will try to bone you against your will if you came here, then you can go to hell. But you’re over there because you need some space to unwind post-op, then it’s _fine_. Stop poking at it and let me deal with my own shit.”

“Yeah. Alright.”

Nick stares at him for a few more seconds and goes back to his game.

Despite his tight tone, Nick’s words calms him a bit. He still feels guilty, but not as much. Nick lights a cigarette and pinches it between his lips while he plays. Dean pulls the cover over himself and stares at a crack in the roof.

“It’s not like I haven’t thought that you might feel molested,” Nick says suddenly, without looking up.

“Come again?”

“You’ve told me you’re gay, with no interest in women. Sure, you like Jess, but that doesn’t mean you won’t feel repulsed by having to sleep with her.”

“Dude, she didn’t force herself on me. _I_ was the instigator, remember?”

“Still. You stayed in the shower long enough to come out shivering. Your lips are still blue for fuck sake. You’re having some kind of reaction.” Nick keeps his attention on the game, talking out of the side of his mouth not to drop the cigarette.

_Huh._

It hadn’t even consciously registered with Dean until Nick pointed it out. He’s still shivering. His hairs are all pricked, but it’s taken away the feeling of touch replaying on his skin.

Nick goes on. “I currently need you as close as physically possible. Not necessarily sex. Stupid as this might sound to you, I want our, fuck. It sounds fucking insane, saying it. But I want our bond, or what you want to call it, reestablished. I’m not pushing you, because if you feel molested, whatever you need, trumps my need.” He takes his cigarette from his mouth and taps ashes off in the water-filled glass-turned-ashtray on the nightstand, still avoiding to look at Dean. “I’m not mad at you. I’m feeling like a pissbaby, because I _need_ you close, and the opposite is happening, and it’s stressing me the fuck out. But that’s on me. That you’re getting cringy and acting guilty, because I fail to control my reaction, makes it worse. I hate laying my feelings bare like this, but the situation calls for being straight with you.”

Dean reaches out and twitches with two fingers, signalling for Nick to share the cigarette. Nick passes it over and goes back to staring at his phone, this time without playing. He just stares at it.

“If you think you could manage, I have a suggestion,” Nick says.

Dean takes a deep, calming drag of the cig. “What would that be?”

“Get up, get dressed in as many layers as you need, take the blanket from that bed, and come lay down here. I’m tired as fuck, and I just want to sleep. But I can feel myself getting too worked up about the distance you’ve put between us. I just want to hold you. Hopefully, clothed and with your own blanket between us, you won’t feel intruded upon, and I’d get peace of mind. Or is it too much? Say no, if it is. I won’t hold it against you.”

“Yeah, no. I think it’ll work.” Dean takes another drag of the cigarette and passes it back. Then he gets out of bed and puts on sweatpants and a long sleeved tee. He grabs the blanket and comes to bed. Nick drops the cigarette butt in the glass and scoots over to give him space. Dean lies down and cocoons himself in his blanket. Nick cuts the light and pulls him close to his chest, making him the little spoon.

Sometimes Dean thinks Nick knows him better than he knows himself. Warmth start spreading through his body, both from the clothes and from Nick cuddled up to his back. The constricting way he's bundled up, makes him feel safe and comforted. How the hell did Nick know this was what he needed? “Thanks…” he says quietly as Nick’s breathing starts evening out. Nick mumbles something unintelligible in response and snuggles closer.

Dean doesn’t think he'll be able to sleep. But when Nick starts snoring softly against his neck, it doesn't take long for him to follow suit.

* * *


	51. Yellow Roses and a Dick

* * *

# Yellow Roses and a Dick

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

 

Dean’s a quarrelsome bitch the upcoming days. He doesn’t mean to be. Their wedding day is closing in and he’s full of self-sabotaging nerves. Especially when he wakes up at 3 AM from Nick’s phone buzzing. “Who the fuck…?” he mutters grumpily. 

Nick reads the text, the corners of his mouth twitching in a held back smile. He holds the phone up so Dean can see.

`**Sam:** I miss you already. Are you coming back to town soon? `

Dean’s stomach twists sourly. He looks at Nick and scrolls, waiting for a protest. Nick just observes him unreadably. Dean takes it as consent and turns his head to read what Nick’s written to Sam. After all, the way they’re lying, Nick can see exactly what he sees. He immediately regrets it. “Christ! No wonder he’s crushing on ya. When the fuck did you turn into a lovesick poet?” he scoffs and hands the phone back, unable to stomach reading through all the texts.

“When my partner required me to, to achieve a goal.”

“Whatever, man. Why are you still in contact with him?”

“Because if Jess didn’t get pregnant, we might need to reconsider our plan.”

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t like it. Next you'll be marrying him instead.”

“We- _eell_ , if he wasn’t taken….” Nick jokes with a sly smirk. 

Dean goes cold and nauseated. Fuck. Nick might actually have feelings for Sam. It makes sense. Sam’s better looking, more put together, cuter, all puppy eyed, successful, more― 

“For the love of―! Dean, it was a joke. Darling, listen to me. I'm an idiot sometimes. I put my foot in my mouth more often than not. I _didn’t_ mean it. Just a joke, nothing more,” Nick assures him urgently and wraps his arms around him. 

“Whatever.”

“No. Not whatever. It was a stupid thing to say. It’s us against the world, right? I didn't think before I spoke. I'm an idiot. Ribbing is one thing, but I overshot. I'm sorry.”

“Jesus, Nicky, it’s fine.” It isn’t, and Dean hates that Nick can tell. Moreover, Nick doesn’t buy his assurance. Instead he starts kissing and caressing, one thing leading to another until Dean’s thoroughly distracted.

* * *

With how much of an ass Dean’s been lately, he never thought this moment would actually come. 

He’s had two minor panic attacks already today. His heart is beating hard and fast. He’s fucking trembling. Every cell in his body feels like it's vibrating, and his mouth is dry. He can’t stop smiling. Not that he’s trying to. Nick looks like fucking James Bond in a flower crown. He’s so fucking handsome. “...I do.” Fuck. Dean’s voice comes out rusty and choked.

The priest turns to Nick. “Do you, Lucifer Nicholas Williams, take this man, Dean Winchester, to love and to honour, through sickness and health, until death do you part?”

The sun paints the floor to their sides in a multitude of coloured fractals as it shines through the high, stained glass windows. A few thorns in Dean’s rose crown dig in in a couple of places. It doesn’t matter―it only makes it feel more like _them_. Most inward facing thorns have been removed on Nick’s insistence, or their foreheads might have ended up a bloody mess. Dean wouldn’t have minded, but the priest and guests might have taken offense.

Nick’s smile is wide and warm and makes Dean weak in the knees. “I do.”

Fuck him for being so stable when he says it. It’s a charade, isn’t it? Just because Dean is giving away his heart and all its fucked up content, meaning every shaky syllable he utters, doesn’t mean it’s the same to Nick. Nick just want to cross getting married off his bucket list. But _fuck, fuck, fuck._ He’s _so_ fucking _handsome_! Clean shaven, whole posture relaxed yet proud. Face soft and warm, like it so rarely is, making him look younger. He’s got a fiery orange rose on his lapel, and his crown is orange too, contrasting to the white roses Dean’s wearing. His cufflinks are engraved with the special forces crest and motto. _De oppresso liber_. Much like Dean’s wearing a pair of white gold cufflinks with a combat engineer motif, a gift from Mike on his latest birthday.

A man Dean doesn’t know, that may or may not be Mike’s secretary (Don Richardson, was it?), holds forth a velvet cushion with the rings on. Dean’s not sure who any of the eleven guests are. He'd been briefly introduced, but had been too nervous to memorize names. Somehow they’re connected to the Williams boys and that’s all he knows. He’s takes one of the rings and hates how his hands shakes. Nick gives him his hand, rough and cold in comparison to Dean’s hot―embarrassingly sweaty―one, and lets Dean slip the gold band on. Dean’s cheeks are going to cramp from the stupid grin he’s wearing. He’s feared he would fumble and drop it, or something equally mortifying.

Then it’s Nick’s turn, and Dean offers his hand. It feels like his heart is on the verge of bursting when Nick puts the wedding ring on his finger, having to wiggle a bit over the knuckle.

“I now pronounce you lawfully wedded, husband and husband,” the priest says. “You may kiss the―”

Dean’s not sure if the priest finishes the sentence, because Nick’s arm come around the small of his back, the other one cups his cheek gently, then Nick’s soft lips presses tenderly against his. So sweet, pure, and blinding. People are clapping but all Dean’s really aware of is Nick. His _husband_. Jesus Christ, but they’re actually fucking _married_!

Nick withdraws, sparing the softest, fondest gaze for Dean, before looking towards their cheering guests. He gives them a sly smirk with narrowed eyes, chuckling darkly. Then he turns back towards Dean, tips him backwards, and gives him a deep, _filthy_ kiss, that sure as hell ain’t fit for church, but leaves Dean weak in the knees and feeling like Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With The Wind. The priest chuckles and someone hoots and wolf whistles. Dean never imagined he’d get to have a _real_ wedding. When Nick first suggested they’d marry, he’d pictured Vegas or some shit like that. Now instead, there’s a limo waiting outside, ready to take them to a party at a nice hotel, where they have the honeymoon suite booked for them.

Okay, here’s the thing.

Nick invited Cas and Gabe, and got himself scolded for giving them about zero heads up. None of them could make it on such short notice. But they promptly ripped the planning out of Nick’s hands, and all the sudden there were a select few guests, more joining at the party, and one of the guests here in church is fucking livestreaming, so Gabe can watch (3 AM) from Shanghai, and Cas can watch (8 PM) from Paris. They took over paying for it all, arranged for the hotel, the dinner, everything. All Dean had to do was to tag along. Which, to be fair, has been nerve wracking enough. 

When they leave the church the guests showers them with Throw & Grow confetti, that apparently will sprout into wildflowers rather than make a mess in nature. It’s perfect for his flower-nerd husband. 

Husband.

It’s surreal.

They drink champagne in the limo and a wedding photographer meets them to take pictures in the lush hotel garden. There’s going to be pictures of them. Real ones, like Sam and Jess have.

********

Once inside the hotel, Dean finally sees a few familiar faces―Naomi and some of the mansion staff. People are happy and smiling, and it’s fucking awesome. There’s maybe twenty, twenty five people all together.

Dinner’s served on one long table that seats all. The seats next to them are left empty, with placing cards for Sam Winchester and Michael Williams, a yellow rose (betrayal and jealousy) laid over each of their plates. This too, was Nick’s idea. The food is fucking incredible, and Dean takes every chance to hold Nick’s hand under the table. Of course there are speeches. And Dean laughs his ass off at some of them, and Nick hides his eyes behind a hand in mortification, while laughing silently at the stories that are told about him.

There’s one guy, who Dean up until he holds his speech, thinks is a bit of a too-slick douché, no matter how much Nick seems to like him. 

This guy, Dick Roman, clinks his fork to a glass to make everyone quiet down, then stands up. “It’s a shame that none of your brothers could be here today, Luci. I’m a bit insulted that you didn’t ask me to be your best man in their stead,” he begins.

Nick sticks his tongue out at him and grins.

“We’ve known each other since we were five years old. And before you went off to the military, you and me, and often as not your brothers, did everything together. I know you, and I know you well. I consider you family. Well. Except I don’t resent you as much.” There’s laughter at that, and Dick smiles his too well-oiled smile at Nick and the guests.

Dick pauses until the laughter dies down. “Today you got married to Dean, a man we’ve never met before. We don’t know you, Dean,” he says, turning his attention to Dean. Dean keeps a smile on his lips even if he feels his hackles rise. Nick hooks his arm around his neck and lets it hang loosely. Protectively, Dean thinks. Dick gives Nick a sly smirk before continuing, looking back at Dean. “Or rather, I didn’t know you. I was worried you wouldn’t measure up, especially since there were no guests from your side to interrogate. So, I took liberties.” He turns to address the whole table. “Dean Winchester was a combat engineer in United States army. He served for eleven years, and had to retire for medical reasons after getting wounded in an airstrike. Furthermore, he was at the time running towards safety with an unconscious officer over his shoulders. Witnesses confirm that Dean would most likely have made it unscratched, had he not chosen to try to save his Captain.”

Now Dean’s heart starts beating faster. This isn’t something he goes around telling people. That he was wounded in an airstrike, yes, but not details. Nick takes his hand under the table and gives it a squeeze.

Dick Roman goes on. “When you ask people who worked with him during his time of service, to describe him, there are several words and phrases that come up, over and over again. Tenacious and stubborn for one. Loyal. Selfless. Caring. Brave. Smart. According to his comrades in arms, he had a knack for raising morale even in the most miserable conditions. You could count on him to have your back, and to never fold under pressure. He’d go the extra mile.” Dick looks at Dean. “And for some reason, the phrase ‘dad jokes’ came up with frightening regularity.” 

Nick throws his head back and guffaws, and Dean grins and shrugs unapologetically. On the inside, he’s an emotional mess. Dick Roman had been informed of their wedding, two or three days before. How the hell…?

There are laughs from others too, and once again Dick waits until people fall silent. “Dean was also described as secretive, and said to hide his emotions. From what I gather, this might be a result of the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. A stupid policy. Everyone needs a little dick sometime,” he jokes and wiggles his eyebrows with a shiteating grin. It makes the table laugh again. Once they settle, Dick turns towards Dean fully. “As it turns out, you’re well respected, loved, and missed by those who know you. I’m certain you’re just what Luci needs to be happy, and as little as you probably care for it, you’ve got my blessing.” Dean lets go of Nick’s hand long enough to put his hand over his heart and bow his head slightly in thanks. It’s the proper thing to do, after all. “However, it isn’t right, that Luci should be the only one who gets to share this day with people that loves him, and since neither of you chose a best man, I appointed myself as yours…” Dick turns his head and makes a come hither gesture towards someone that’s been standing in the background. The guy―a bellhop―comes forth carrying a big laptop, and puts it down in front of Dean. “Here’s my gift to you, as your best man. There are some people who wish to congratulate you, despite not being able to be here today,” Dick ends his speech and sits down. 

The bellhop opens the laptop and Dean comes face to face with six windows in a video conference. Harvelle, Mills, Henriksen, Cuevas, Banes, and Trenton, all looking straight at him. Trenton and Banes are in desert combat gear, with a somewhat scratchy connection, seemingly from fucking _Afghanistan_. Dean can’t fucking breathe. They’re all smiling, smirking, or grinning.

“No way,” he breathes.

“Hell yeah! Good on you, Winchester. I fucking owe Jody a 100 bucks, but it sure as hell explains why you never had a girlfriend. Congrats, brother,” Trenton says. Harvelle is the only one who knew he was gay, but if there was anyone of them, he’d expect to react badly at getting to know he’s gay, it was Trenton.

“It was a beautiful wedding, Dean. I’m happy for you,” Major Ellen Harvelle says and smiles her motherly smile.

“You saw?” he asks dumbfoundedly.

“Livestream,” Mills answers.

“Jo’s going to be disappointed, but at least now I can finally tell her why,” Harvelle adds.

Nick leans his head on Dean’s shoulder and peeks curiously at the screen.

“Hey, didn’t we serve together a couple of years ago?” Henriksen asks Nick. “You’re Special Forces, right? Nicky?”

“Yeah, Vic. I remember you…”

Dean manages to tune out the rest of the table while he and Nick talks to his friends. Scratch that. _Family_. A small part of it, but still. It’s his family―a part of it he thought was lost to him. So maybe he tears up a bit. Ain’t nobody’s who’s gonna blame him for crying happy tears on his wedding day, right?

********

Later, when the bar opens, he searches Dick Roman out. “Hey, Dick. I gotta thank you, man. I don’t know how you pulled that off, but I fucking appreciate it,” he says and shakes Dick’s hand.

Roman smiles his slick smile. “Don’t mention it.”

“Yeah, well. It means a lot. And I kinda owe you an apology. No offense meant, but when we first got introduced, I thought you were sort of a… um…”

“Dick?” Dick answers with a smirk and raises a sardonic eyebrow. “I didn’t acquire the contacts and power to orchestrate that by being saintly. Lucifer is one of my closest childhood friends. Many believe we’re both aptly named, and they might be onto something. But if he cares for you enough to marry you, then pulling a couple of strings is the least I can do. I know what marriage means to him.”

Dean thinks that Dick doesn’t know at all, since Nick married Dean as a way to get back at people that have hurt them, but he doesn’t say that. Either way, Dick’s put in Dean’s good book.

********

Nick’s got shit for music taste. Dean put his foot down when Nick wanted fucking _Billy Idol_ for their wedding dance. So Nick had suggested Juliet Lyons instead. Dean had no clue who that was, and foolishly said yes. Nick has a thought behind every detail he’d planned for the wedding though.

Dean figures there’s a deeper symbolism at work when Nick picks the yellow rose from Michael’s plate, breaks off the stem and fits the rose behind his ear before he leads Dean out on the dance floor. The music that starts playing is a slowed down cover of Billy Idol’s ‘[White Wedding](https://open.spotify.com/track/3Js8oVpo8gr0CokM7uuiMA)’, sung by a woman, (presumably Juliet Lyons), so joke’s on Dean. Really, he couldn’t care less for whatever symbolic reason Nick chose it. Nick’s looking at him with a self-satisfied, predatory gleam that triggers hunger in him. He knows the look. It’s the look Nick has whenever he gets something from Dean that Mike doesn’t. They don’t stay long after the dance. Their guests has an open bar to entertain themselves with. Nick and he has a perfect wedding to consummate, and once the fire has been lit, it can’t be doused.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why Luci chose this song as his wedding dance song with Dean (Lies! All lies! I know it, but you don't) but for those of you who likes to overthink (like Luci's obviously done) here are [the lyrics.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-dMAQt9Z-pM)
> 
>  
> 
> And here's a page that discusses the meaning of the song, that I enjoyed reading through the interpretations in [the comments.](http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=1129)
> 
> Luci, of course, might have his own interpretation, and it's entirely possible, likely even, that he in his mind has switched out the word "sister" for "brother".
> 
> Anyway, you can find the version played at the wedding on spotify:  
> <https://open.spotify.com/track/3Js8oVpo8gr0CokM7uuiMA>


	52. Scar Tissue

* * *

# Scar Tissue

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

 

They stumble into the suite kissing. Dean has this unreal feeling. He keeps being hit by the thought that he’s married, _they're_ married. Nick’s his husband. 

It feels like he’s gonna wake up any moment now to discover that it’s all just a dream. 

Shoes and suit jacket come off on the way to bed, but before they fall into it, Dean puts his hand in the middle of Nick’s chest to halt him. “I want you naked.”

Nick makes a face. “Darling, I’ve told you―“

“No. Baby, it’s our wedding night. Blindfold me if you have to, but _please_... I want you to give me this.”

Nick scrutinizes him for a beat, then nods. He removes his cummerbund and throws it on the bed. “Fair enough. We'll use that. But I want you naked first.”

Said and done. 

Once Dean’s naked, Nick ties the cummerbund around his eyes, blindfolding him. Dean can hear the rustling of fabric as Nick undresses. Dean sits on the side of the bed, waiting. “Come here. Stand between my legs,” he bids. Nick’s legs brush the inside of his thighs. Dean raises his hand and caresses upward along Nick’s leg on his healthy side until he reaches the waist. Then he does the same on the damaged side. Nick tenses up before Dean even reaches scar tissue. “ _Shhh_. Relax, baby. I ain’t gonna be put off. Trust me. I ain’t gonna hurt you, Nicky. I've longed to feel your naked skin against mine, whatever state it’s in,” Dean coos. Nick doesn’t answer. 

Dean leans forward and kisses Nick’s stomach. He rubs his nose from side to side and breathes a soft “ _Fuck._ ” Nick starts pulling away but Dean grabs him around the back of his thighs and lower back to stop him. “Not that kind of ‘fuck’, baby. You’ve got a happy trail, ‘ts all. I like it.” He lifts a hand to run his fingers through the hair on Nick’s unscathed side of his chest. “I fucking like it,” he repeats. 

He strokes his hand over to the scarred side. It’s creased and glossy-smooth all at once. The edge isn’t even. It’s like whatever burned has run like hot wax, making a jagged edge that's scarred over half the chest, stomach, and part of the hip and ass, but left the nipple intact. The scarring on the back is more extensive, but its edge smoother, rounder. Nick swallows audibly. Dean slowly drags his lips back and forth, feeling hair tickle his lips and nose, then hairless, uneven scarring. Nick relaxes a bit when Dean shows no sign of repulsion. Not even near full relaxation, but it’s a start. And when Dean opens his mouth and bites his waist, Nick sucks in a breath and shudders.

“Come on, baby. Lay down on the bed for me,” Dean urges and scoots himself backward. He keeps his foot outstretched to graze Nick’s leg to keep track of Nick’s movements, then switches to touching him with the tips of his fingers once he’s on the bed. “You lying comfortably?” he asks once Nick’s lying on his back. Nick hums an affirmative. “Okay, you tell me if something is physically uncomfortable or hurts, alright? Otherwise, just be still and let me feel ya,” Dean instructs.

“Fair enough…”

Fuck, but Dean loves this. Having Nick like this. Just lying there and letting him touch and taste _every_ part of his body. Dean takes his time, mapping him out with fingers, lips, teeth and tongue. Nick relaxes more and more, until he starts tensing up for other reasons. Like how his side is ticklish just under the armpit, or how sensitive his nipples are. Nick needs just the lightest of touches on his nipples for his breath to catch. He likes when you drag nails through the hair on his chest, or kiss down the happy trail. The sensitivity on his scarred side is all fucked up. Some places cause discomfort when touched, some are numb, and some places turn out to cause pleasure if you drag teeth across them without biting. This is a surprise to both Dean and Nick, and Dean is absolutely _thrilled_ to discover new erogenous zones on Nick.

He asks Nick to turn over, and repeats the process. The scar reaches over one ass cheek, and is the reason Nick rarely removes his underwear even during sex, opting to just pull his dick out of the front of the boxers. For this reason, Dean hasn’t gotten the chance to do something he’s wanted for a long time. Dean takes full advantage now, spreads Nick’s ass cheeks, and licks. Nick apparently _likes_ being eaten out. He squirms and swears and pants, gets up on all fours and pushes himself against Dean’s tongue, trying to fuck himself on it. Dean adds a finger, crooking it to massage the prostate, and grabs Nick’s cock to jerk him off at the same time. Nick comes less than a minute later, crying out and bucking. 

It might not have been the smartest move to get Nick to come, since Dean would very much like to get his own ass pounded thank you. He says as much, and Nick laughs, flips over onto his back. “I'm sure we can figure something out,” he assures Dean mirthfully and pulls Dean up for a kiss. 

In the end they just make out, grinding against each other. It’s enough for Dean to come and his heart to soar. Dean falls asleep with the cummerbund still tied over his eyes, lying half atop Nick’s still blessedly naked body.

* * *

“You awake, Mr. Winchester Williams?” Dean asks, voice sleep rough.

“I am now, Mr. Winchester Williams.” Dean can hear the smile in his voice.

Dean sniggers. “The cummerbund slipped off while I slept. I haven’t opened my eyes, but I'm starting to get too hungry to stay in bed. Plus, I need to take a piss.” Nobody can accuse him of not having self control. Shit, he wants to look so badly. But that may lead to Nick not trusting him to be naked together again. 

“Mmh. Give me a moment.” Nick slips from his grasp and out of bed. Dean hears him opening his bag and rummage around. “Okay you can look now.”

Dean opens his eyes to find that Nick’s put on a T-shirt and underwear. He gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom to relieve himself. “Oh and for the record, I wouldn’t mind getting one of those blindfold things to wear at night, if that means I can sleep naked with you again,” he says on his way there. Nick mutters something in return, but Dean doesn’t catch it.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Dean calls out from the bathroom.

Nick opens the door and stands leaned on the doorway, watching Dean pee. “Shoot.”

“Dick Roman. First of, what the hell? Second, how the fuck?”

Nick sniggers. “Mmmh. He’s something else. His father was a close friend of my father and that’s how we became friends. We think of him more like a cousin. He’s an only child, one year younger than me and Mikey. He took over his dad’s company when he was 26, and has turned it from a fairly local company, acting only within the state, to a worldwide brand, that more or less has monopoly here in the US.”

“Oh, yeah? What company?” Dean asks and dries the tip of his dick off with a small piece of toilet paper.

“Sucrocorp.”

“Never heard of it.” Dean steps out of the way to let Nick take a piss too, and leans his ass against the stone basin.

“I suppose you wouldn’t. They sell some kind of sugar syrup that’s part of almost all processed food these days.” Nick shrugs. “They deliver to all the major companies, like Dole, General Mills, Nestlé, and Kraft Foods, for starters. But also to smaller companies. Even if Sucrocorp isn’t the listed provider, chances are, they still are. Dick has acquired most competitors, or ruined them, one way or another. He’s ruthless and unscrupulous. He’s the kind of person you either want to consider you as a friend, or don’t want them to know you exist. And he doesn’t consider many people friends.”

“Huh. Okay, don’t get me wrong here, but I’m confused. When you talk about your childhood it sounds like it was just you and your brothers hanging out, but when he spoke, it sounded like y’all were besties?”

Nick smirks, shakes himself off, and gives Dean a chastising look. “We’re all social creatures, darling. Are you really surprised we have friends?”

Dean glares at him for his patronizing tone. “Not what I meant.”

Nick flushes the toilet. “Fair enough. Look, very few people got inside of our bubble, so to speak. But we all had friends outside the family. Dicky’s one of the few ones to get close to us and stick there. He’s also one of the few all four of us would mention, if we were to list our friends. But no. You’re right. He would probably consider us closer, than we him, as we have each other. Today he and Gabe are probably the closest, as they both share a great disdain for the law, and may or may not dabble in industrial espionage.”

“That trick he pulled yesterday, ‘s real nice. I appreciated it.”

“Mmh. Had he been given a greater heads up, we could probably have filled the church with surprise guests from your side too. Dicky’s got a lot of important people by the balls. He could probably have squeezed them enough to fly in your brothers in arms from their deployments.”

“Huh. Say, does he consider your dad a friend too?”

Nick laughs, deep and darkly. “Not even close.”

“Good. Because I’m planning to piss your dad off, and I wouldn’t want to anger Dick, if I can help it.”

“What’s your plan?”

“I’ll tell you some other time. Ain’t done figuring it out yet.”

“Whatever it is, I’m in.”

* * *

It’s a beautiful day, and they decide to take a walk in the park located just behind the hotel garden. They don’t talk much. There’s no need. Just sharing silence and soundlessly commenting on people using only looks. Dean can’t get over the unreal feeling he has about them being fucking married. It may be all for show, but he revels in the pretense. He turns his head and spots something behind them. “Hey, look. A bunch of Mavises,” he notes, grinning.

“Mavises? Wha―” Nick utters with a bemused frown, turns around and makes the most delighted, indignified sound.

Behind them two women are walking three adult border terriers, and five puppies. It looks fairly chaotic, and Dean’s about to say as much, but Nick’s already moving as drawn by a fucking magnet.

When Dean catches up, Nick’s lying flat on his fucking back on the dirt path, puppies crawling all over him and one adult licking his face. He looks childishly happy. The women are smiling down at him, one bemusedly, the other one warmly.

“Dude, I knew you liked dogs, but didn’t know they were your kryptonite.”

“I’ve officially reached the peak moment of my life. I thought it was yesterday, but I was wrong,” Nick answers with an earsplitting grin, trying to pet every little furball at once.

Dean looks at the women and gives them an apologetic smile. “Excuse my husband. Sometimes he has no manners.”

The women, looking like daughter and mother both startle at the word husband, but their reactions are vastly different. The younger one, that had been smiling bemusedly, somewhat skeptically, at Nick, turns softer, more genuine in her demeanor, while her mother tenses up, but keeps the polite smile on her face. “Oh, it’s no bother,” the young one assures. “Who can resist puppies anyway?”

“I think it’s the fact that they’re border terriers that does it. He has a thing for them.”

Nick ignores them, cooing and giggling like a dork on the ground.

“The dogs like him,” the mother offers, still looking uncomfortable after the reveal that they’re married, but not wanting to be rude. As long as she keeps her mouth shut about it, Dean’s ‘okay’ with her signs of homophobia. A lot of people aren’t assholes per se, just unexposed to gay people, and may grow out of their shitty views once they’ve gotten to familiarise themselves with actual gays.

“They’ve got good taste,” Dean jokes, looking down at his silly husband with an expression of great fondness. “I know absolutely nothing about dogs. When he told me he wanted a border terrier, I figured it was some kind of Mexican dog, smuggled in illegally. Any of them for sale?”

“I’m afraid not. We breed them, but we plan our breedings far in advance, and have a waiting list, so that once the litter is born, our buyers have already been chosen,” the mother tells them.

“That’s the conduct of reputable breeders,” Nick chimes in without taking his focus off of the dogs. “They take great care for both which dogs to breed, and who gets to own them, putting their dogs’ well being first. Both future-, mental-, and health-wise.”

“Indeed,” the mother agrees, relaxing somewhat.

“Would you like to pet one?” the daughter asks Dean.

“Um. Sure, why not?” Dean hasn’t pet many dogs in his life. It’s not that he doesn’t like them. He just hasn’t got the drive to pet them and has had few chances to get to know any, since none of his close friends had dogs.

The daughter bends down and picks a puppy up. “This is Baxter. He’s the calmest, most cuddly one.” She holds it out to Dean. He takes the brownish puppy gingerly. It sniffs his hand and bites experimentally on a finger, with teeth sharp as needles. Afraid to drop the little furball, Dean sits down, so it’s closer to the ground. Baxter’s in his lap, flipping over to get his belly scratched.

They stay talking with the women for almost half an hour before the women need to go. During this time, Baxter falls asleep in Dean’s lap.

Dean’s heart melts just a little bit.

* * *


	53. The Meaning of 50 Blue Roses

* * *

# The Meaning of 50 Blue Roses

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

 

Not only had they had a perfect wedding, the whole weekend had been _awesome_. The receptionist at the hotel had gone beyond what duty called for, to make sure their stay had been great. Tonight is their last night before checking out and going back to a cheaper motel. Dean’s insisted they stay in town until they know whether Jess is pregnant or not. If she is, Dean’s planned to confront Sam one last time before walking away and leaving his little brother in the dust for real.

“Chicks digs flowers, right?” Dean asks. They’re in the car, on their way back to the hotel from having eaten a fantastic lunch at some top notch restaurant.

“Yes?”

“In that case, can you pull over by a flower shop? I wanna buy a flower to the receptionist at the hotel to say thanks for making our stay there so great.”

“Sure.”

They park outside the florist and venture inside. They look around each on their own, when a woman emerges from the back room and approaches Dean. “May I help you?”

“Um, yeah. I wanna buy flowers. I was thinking a bouquet? I wanna say thank you to someone.”

“Absolutely. Is it someone close to you?”

“No. It’s for the receptionist at the hotel we’ve been staying. She’s really made this weekend worthwhile for us.”

“Alright. Come this way. Do you want the flowers to mean ‘Thank you’ as well, or do you just want something pretty?” she asks and leads him to a section with cut flowers in buckets.

“Um. You mean like yellow roses mean friendship?”

He sees Nick―standing not too far away from them inspecting a bunch of orchids―smirking at Dean’s question. After all, it was he who told Dean that. 

“Exactly,” the flower girl chirps. “And roses are always popular. A single peach rose means ‘Thank you’.”

“One seems a bit boring to give.” Dean looks at the roses available. This store has a lot of colours to choose from.

“Well. The dark pink roses convey gratitude. There isn’t a specific number that means thank you. Most have romantic connotations. But thirteen means either friends forever or secret admirer. Then fifteen means ‘I’m sorry’, twenty means ‘I’m sincere towards you’, and twenty five mean’s ‘congratulations’.”

Dean spots a couple of blue roses and suddenly remembers that he totally forgot to ask what they meant. And Nick had said he should have bought fifty of them. “Say… If I were to give someone fifty blue roses, what would I be saying?” he casts a glance at Nick while he speaks. Nick’s not looking at them but he tenses up, looking alarmed.

“Oh no. You shouldn’t do that. That would be so sad,” the woman says.

“How’s that?”

“Fifty roses, usually red but it goes for any colour I guess. You know, joint messages? Fifty means limitless or unconditional love. Blue roses stand for two things. Mystery, and desire for the unattainable or impossible. So fifty of those would mean you held great, unconditional love that you know never will be reciprocated, or the person will never be yours for one reason or another. My heart breaks just thinking about it.”

“Oh. Okay yeah that’d be sad… Let’s just go for twenty dark pink ones.”

* * *

Nick hasn’t said anything since they were in the flower shop. They’ve been driving in silence for fifteen minutes and Nick has barely looked at him.

_Is Nick in love with me? Like, for fucking real?_

Dean takes up his phone and googles ‘Moss rosebud meaning’. He blinks at the result for a while, before putting his phone back in his pocket. ‘ _The moss rosebud stands for confessions of love._ ’ What was it Nick had said? ‘This will get the message across’? He thinks of how his own feelings had grown over the course of time and for how long he denied having these feelings for Nick, claiming to himself they were just symptoms of other things―friendship, loneliness, familiarity, frustration. But hell, even if they _were_ they meant the same thing―partnership, belonging, home, and sexual attraction. He’s known for a long time now that he’s helplessly in love. “For how long?” he asks, looking out of the window.

Dean’s surprised that Nick answers at all, even if he counted on Nick knowing what he’s asking about.

“Same as Mikey I suppose. You swept me off my feet at first meeting,” Nick answers defeatedly. “Like a kick in the groin,” he adds with a tad bit more humour.

Dean’s quietly mulling this over. He’s mad as fuck at Nick for not telling him. But then again, in hindsight Nick had been screaming it at him from the start. Like on their second meeting when Dean stepped off the boat from Bahamas and Nick had warned him he might start gushing when he took the painkillers. And it had escalated from there. The texts when Dean ignored him, the note of pride when he introduced them as partners, the romantic anniversaries, the insistence that Dean come meet his friends, all those small gestures. The _blushing_ for god’s sake! Nick isn’t a blusher. But Dean had been too distracted by his own fluttering heart and Michael to really dare to grasp what he was seeing. To believe. Especially once Nick told him not to break up with Mike. 

That part never added up. Dean’s not born yesterday. He knows when someone likes him. But Nick’s attitude towards Mike and Dean as a couple, threw Dean for a loop. Same with the ‘Dean, don’t.’ It had led to Dean thinking Nick didn’t have any romantic feelings towards him, despite the evidence to the contrary. Especially during these last weeks. Hell, they were married now, and yet, yesterday, Nick mentioned going back to Mike, thinking they shouldn’t stay away too long, or Mike would get worried. It makes zero sense.

“You know that night when you first fucked me? You know what the first thing I said to Mike when he got home and asked me what had happened? I told him I’d let you fuck me. He didn’t believe me and I didn’t insist. I was mad as hell at you, because you said we should go home but you took me to Mike’s and left me there. You should have taken me home that night. To where you lived. And you fucking discarded me. Didn’t tell me what you wanted. Just left me for trash...” Dean’s lips twists bitterly and he stares out of the side window, unable to look at Nick.

“You always said you were one man’s man. You were lonely and frustrated. I figured I was just sex for you. A mistake. Or simply revenge.”

“ _No you fucking weren’t_! Pull over!” Dean barely gives Nick the time to drive to the side of the road and pull over before he’s unbuckling the seatbelt and yanking the door open. He gets out and slams the door as hard as he can, stomps a few steps away from the car, digs his hands into his hair, fisting it, and bends his neck. His world just shifted and it doesn’t make fucking sense. He hears Nick open the car door and step outside.

Dean spins around. “Explain to me, Nick. Explain to me, so I can understand, _why the hell you didn’t want me to break up with Michael!?_ ”

Nick’s crosses his arms over the car roof, and leans his forehead against his arms. His whole posture radiates defeat. “I made a promise.”

“A promise? A fucking _promise_?! What kind of promise?? To whom??”

Nick sighs and looks up, staring vacuously at the car roof. “When we fought after Lilith, I said to Mikey I would never steal someone from him, that he loves.”

“Are you fucking _insane_? I’m NOT FUCKING PROPERTY! I’m a thinking, feeling, autonomous fucking human being! I’ve got the right to choose for my fucking self, you fucking prick!” Dean’s furious, fists clenched at his sides. “I can’t be fucking _stolen_! And what about all the times we fucked?”

Nick’s forehead thumps down onto his arms. “I promised not to steal. I didn’t say anything about borrowing,” he mutters.

Dean throws his hands up in exasperation. “I can’t fucking _believe_ you right now! Are you _listening_ to yourself?! I guess the analogy about the borrowed car was fucking accurate, huh? Do you know how worthless you made me feel when you just ditched me at Mike’s and went AWOL, like I was just another hump ‘n dump? I thought we _had_ something, Nick! And you just pissed all over that. And what? You figured, if you could make me stay with Mike, you could keep me?”

“Yes,” Nick answers bluntly. 

“Please, fucking explain your reasoning behind telling me to dump him, up until I actually considered doing it?” That bugs the hell out of Dean.

“In the beginning, I figured I could just wait you out. Mikey would tire like he always does, and ditch you. We weren’t close enough for me to take the blame. But then we grew close, and I was always hanging onto my self control not to take you, both metaphorically, and literally. Telling you to dump him then, would have been telling you to be mine.”

“ **NOT! PROPERTY!** Jesus Christ, you’re fucked up!”

“I _made_ , a fucking _promise_!” Nick meets ire with ire now, looking up with a fierce scowl. “I take my promises very seriously. I promised myself to prove dad wrong, and joined the fucking _army_. I promised Mikey I wouldn’t steal his love. I promised you I’d never abandon you again. I promised you I’d never lie to you, only withhold stuff. I fucking keep my promises! It’s the _only fucking thing_ I’ve got to be proud of! My fucking _word_!”

Dean shakes his head. If his instinct about Nick’s feelings towards him hadn’t been wrong, then there were other things that made sense too, no matter how twisted they seemed. “Like fuck you did.” Dean stalks back to the car, going around to Nick’s side of the car, Nick turns to face Dean warily. 

“I never lied to you. Only withheld,” Nick insists.

Dean gets all up in his face. He has a theory. “No. You lied. _You_ said, nothing out of the ordinary happened when you were home the last time before you got disowned. _You_ said, you and Mike were only close in a brotherly way. Those are both lies considering you fucking had _sex_ with him that time,” Dean sneers. It’s a lie. Dean doesn’t actually know the answer. He’s making a―to him―very educated guess. There are too many details about Mike and Nick’s behaviours, things they’ve said and done, that are just fucked up and doesn’t add up in reference to being ‘just brothers’. The withered moss rosebud in Nick’s room at the estate, along with Mike’s reaction to the rosebud Dean got. How they reacted to smelling each other’s after shave on Dean’s skin. Small slips of tongue, like Nick, while doped out, answering that Dean was the better kisser. Like Nick telling Eli they were close, adding ‘like brothers’ in the comparison, _after_ they started fucking. Or how Nick would gush about Mike, then turn around to bash him the next minute. How he mumbled Mikey’s name in his sleep when having a nightmare. Mike fetishing his scar and encouraging behaviour that was Nick-like, while at the same time freaking out at the very mention of his name. There were too many coincidences for it to be innocent.

Nick stares at him. His expression goes from angry, to confused, to numbstruck. “That… that _happened_?” he asks. As if he wouldn’t be the one sitting on the answer to this.

“Yup,” Dean answers, popping the P. That’s all the confirmation he needs. If Nick in doubt, then it fucking well _happened_. 

Nick’s stunned, bending his head to look at the ground between them. “Fuck… I thought it was just a dream.”

“A dream,” Dean states skeptically. “You’re in a habit of having sex dreams about Mike?” No wonder Nick saw nothing weird in making Sam cry out Dean’s name during sex. Jeezus.

“It happens, so fucking sue me,” Nick snaps, casting him a short glare before staring down at the ground again. “Can’t fucking control what I dream about. If I could, I’ll tell you, I wouldn’t have been dreaming of you almost every fucking night since the day we met.”

“I don’t get it, Nick. How could you think it was a dream? I’d imagine having sex with your brother is a huge fucking deal.” No kidding. No matter how close they were, they would have known they overshot the borders of acceptable by miles.

“It was only frottage and I was wasted, okay? Fucking plastered. We fell asleep in the same bed as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then, presumably, _that_ happened. In the morning Mikey acted just like he always does. I figured the memory was just a drunken wet dream.” Nick stares at the ground as if it held all the answers, looking more and more distraught by the second. “ _Fuck_. I fucked it up. It’s my fault. If I’d just...” He lifts a hand and rubs it over his mouth, horrified scowl getting deeper, eyes widening.

“Nick. Pull it together. Be honest with me now, okay? Did you, or did you not, encourage me to stay with Mike, so you could keep a part of him, despite everything?” Dean bends his neck and turns his head so he can catch Nick’s lowered gaze.

Nick tries to look away, but Dean follows in his line of sight until he looks up and glares defiantly. “Fine. Partially, I did. You only wanted to fuck me to fuck with him anyway. And I _had_ made him a promise. I didn’t want to be like him, sink to that level. I never expected to fall head over heels for his boyfriend. Fuck, I didn’t expect him to _have_ a boyfriend. I’m fucking sorry. I’ve told you my feelings towards him are complicated at best. He used to be my fucking life. There’s no fucking closure to be had. Nobody will ever fill that hole in my heart completely. Now _you’re_ my fucking life. So fuck you.”

“I can’t believe I’m fucking hearing this. You’re fucking dense.” Dean grabs Nick’s shoulders, feeling him tense up and seeing how he clenches his fist in preparation for a fight. Dean moves a hand to hook around his neck. “I said I’d kill for you. I said I’d die for you. I said you’re stuck with me, come rain or shine. I stood in front of a fucking _priest_ , and promised to love and honour you until death do us part. You honestly _believe_ , I’d do that, if I didn’t mean it? You really think I’d do that, just to get _revenge_? You’re fucking _dumb_ if you think that. I married you, because I want to spend the rest of my life with you. That’s it. I want nothing more, than to be yours. Nicky, I love you, man. I. _Love._ You. I fucking love you.” Words, torn from his throat like barbed wire. So, so hard to say. Even now, with anger fuelling his speech, he wants to shove those words back into his mouth, make them unsaid in desperate panic. Afraid of what the consequences for baring himself, will be.

Nick stares at him searchingly, worriedly, doubtingly. Like he’s drilling a hole into Dean’s skull to find a ruse. He doesn’t respond.

Fear of rejection overtakes the anger in Dean. “Ey, Nicky. Talk to me, man. If you don’t feel the same, you gotta tell me. I can’t― I can’t― There ain’t no me, if there ain’t no you.” He’s said those words before. In his dreams, to Sam. Only it wasn’t him saying it and somebody else was channeling his thoughts, speaking them. He’d meant it though, just like he means it now.

Nick grabs both his cheeks and pulls him in for a hard kiss, lips pressing bruisingly against teeth. It’s quick, and takes Dean by surprise. Nick doesn’t let go of his cheeks when he pulls back just enough to stare deeply into his eyes. When he talks, he puts emphasis on every word, and his blue eyes gloss over, wet. “Dean Winchester Williams. I love you with every fibre of my body. I’m a mess. I will always be a mess. I’ll fuck things up with astounding regularity. But I’m loyal like a dog and I love you like a fucking tool. There is no path I wouldn’t follow you down. There ain’t no me, if there ain’t no you either. Please, forgive me for being a moron, and let me make up for every mistake I’ve committed, and every new mistake I’ll make. Please, forgive me for being what I am, and stay.”

“ _Jesus Christ_! You’re gonna make me cry, you dickwad. Ain’t nothing to forgive about that, you idiot. Being what you are, is what makes me love you, you shithead. I already told you, you’re fucking stuck with me. But you gonna have to quit withholding shit from me, man. It’s gonna have to be us against the world, you hear? For real. ‘S all I want. Honesty and fucking loyalty. I ain’t going back to Mike. I fucking ain’t.” Dean’s eyes sting. Fucking tears. He refuses to start bawling like a fucking baby, but it’s a close call. Nick loves him exactly the way he wants to be loved. He’s still mad. Has to be. Without the anger, the words would remain unspoken. He can’t fucking talk about feelings like this, if he isn’t pissed off. “I can’t live a double life. I ain’t cut out for it. I love him too, and he broke my fucking heart by lying to me from the getgo. It ain’t stealin’, you hear? I ain’t his property, and I ain’t your property either. We’re equals, partners, brothers in arms. Fucking _husbands_. Don’t hide yourself from me anymore. Forget Mike. I’m your family. You’re all I’ve got. I want this for be for fucking life, Nick.”

“I want that too. Dean, when I suggested we marry, you said yes because you really wanted that?” Nick asks, as if the idiot doesn’t dare to believe. 

“Hell yeah, I did.”

“Fuck.” Nick pulls him close and buries his nose in the crook of his neck. “It was a Freudian fucking slip on my behalf. Why couldn't you have said something earlier.”

The anger melts away in relief and frustration. Shit, he’s got so many feelings boiling underneath, it’s hard to make sense of it all. But most of all, it's relief. Nick’s fucked up. As much as he is, if in another way. They’re gonna have to have a good, long talk about Mike, because he’s planning to give Mike the finger and he needs Nick to be in on it. But for now he melts into the embrace. “I told you, I can't say it. Words like that… You don’t say them, you don't get hurt.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that been working out for you?”

“You fucking sassing me right now?”

Nick chuckles, tone strangled. “I'd never,” he jokes.

“I tried to. In the alley. Other times. You know I suck at talking about my feelings unless I'm pissed off. It leaves me too fucking vulnerable. You really didn’t know? Fuck sake, Nicky. Were you even _there_ these last weeks? How could you think I _wasn’t_ madly in love with you? I cried when you proposed for fuck sake!”

Nick lets out a pained chortle. “You kept pointing out that it was a hoax wedding, darling. You’re so sappy, you cry at romcoms. How am I supposed to know? When I asked you if you’d marry Mike if he asked, you said yes.”

“ _Yeah_ , but I meant if he _hadn’t_ been a lying bastard and broken my heart. Not as things stood when you asked.”

“Oh, fuck. I meant as things were. Why didn’t you break up with him?”

“You told me _not_ to, you fucking moron. I figured you didn’t want our kind of relationship if it wasn’t to get back at him, and I don’t handle being alone well. I came to the conclusion that being a plaything was my only worth to you guys. But it was better than nothing. At least I’d have the pretense.”

Nick laughs and pushes Dean away far enough to be able to look him in the eyes. Nick’s fucking crying. That _never_ happens. Nick may say it does, but Dean can’t remember ever seeing it, if you don’t count eyes getting glossy from unshed tears sometimes. Now they’re rolling down his cheeks, turning his nose red and his cheeks splotchy. He’s grinning though, and his gaze is full of rueful affection. “And you’re calling me a moron? For the love of―! Dean. Both me and Mikey love you more than anything. Despite all the lying, the engagement to a woman, I feel a 100% certain when I say that Mikey too, loves you. There isn’t a single doubt in my mind that you’re the best thing in both our lives. I’m not saying this to make you go back to him. Fuck him. I’m not letting you go now. But _three years_ , living together with a man? A Winchester to boot? You clearly don’t see the magnitude of that. I can’t even comprehend that he came out to Anna for you. Fuck, Dean. You’ve been measuring your worth by our mistakes towards you? That fucking breaks my heart.”

It’s an emotional shitstorm and it’s hitting Dean full force. He shouldn’t give a shit about Mike’s feelings towards him, but he does. He’s long since stopped believe a word that came out of Mike’s mouth. Nick once said one shouldn’t be grateful to be loved. That how you were treated was what mattered. He’s right about that. But walking around thinking you’re the only one with the strong feelings, hurts. Unrequited love _hurts_. And getting confirmed that it wasn’t unrequited when you’ve lost all faith, well. It twists him up inside and makes it hard to breathe. He covers his mouth and nose with a hand and blinks furiously not to lose it completely. He screws his eyes shut and bends his neck, unable to stop the first sob.

Nick tugs him back into an embrace, putting his chin on the crown of his head. “You know how many times I’ve drunk myself shitfaced and cried about you? Eli deserves a fucking award for putting up with me. I’ve been so torn, Dean. I didn’t want to betray Mikey, no matter what he’d done. I wanted to be better than him for once. But it’s been so hard. You made my fucking heart sing, still do. If you knew what a mess I am inside… I’m always second guessing myself, always insecure. I pretend I’m not, but on the inside I’m lost and scared shitless most of the time. I probably should have told you, but I’d see you and Mikey together sometimes. Couldn’t stay away. Like poking at a scab.” Nick’s voice is choked, as strangled as Dean feels, tight with emotion. “You seemed so happy when you were together. How could I ruin that? I can’t offer you shit, compared to him. I was jealous too, at both of you. Half the time, my thoughts don’t make sense. I keep changing my mind about things, regretting actions, doing stupid things. I’ve felt relief anytime you’ve told me what to do, given me the rules and boundaries straight up. Shit, we’re such losers, aren’t we?”

Dean lets out a weak laugh against Nick’s chest and nods. “No more withholding, Nicky. The demons in my head drown out other people’s silence. They’re so easy to believe. I need you to talk, when I can’t. I fucking can’t talk about feelings, okay?”

“You’re doing just fine now,” Nick assures with a little snicker.

They stand there, crying like the fucking idiots they are, holding each other, comparing situations where they both have misinterpreted each other. As much as it’s an emotional upheaval, it’s alright. There might be a happy ending in store for them. All this time, and everything Dean had felt and thought, had been real. Everything.

It’s been so complicated. Dean doesn’t _do_ complicated. Now it isn’t complicated any more.

Thank fuck.

* * *


	54. Wake Me Up

* * *

# Wake Me Up

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

“Don’t hide yourself from me,” Dean bids when they’re undressing to go to bed, and Nick leaves his shirt and boxer briefs on as usual.

“Dean,” Nick protests, throwing an unsure look over his shoulder while he’s stuffing his dirty clothes in his bag.

Dean comes to wrap his arms around him from behind. “Ey. I won’t be put off, okay? I’d feel the same about you even if your face was as badly scarred as your side is. And I want you naked. The last couple months, the only thing I looked forward to about Mike coming home, was getting some skin to skin contact.”

“I can’t stand to look at it.”

“Yeah well. You gonna have to get used to it. I dunno how you looked before, but I fell for you as you are now. ‘S about time you follow suit.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“No it’s not. I’m sure the memories of gaining it, are gross, but the resulting scarring isn’t. Trust me. You trust me, don’t you?”

Nick sighs, makes a face, and drops his shoulders in defeat. He closes his eyes and pulls his T-shirt over his head.

Honestly, the scarring wouldn’t have put Dean off even if it was a random hookup standing before him.

It’s not _pretty_ , but it’s not even half as bad as Nick’s making it out to be in his head. The skin is glossy and dark pink mostly, white in places, with a few purple spots. It looks like someone smeared skin on haphazardly, with grooves, knots, strains, bubbles, and wrinkles. But it really isn’t that bad.

“There you go,” Dean coos and strokes both Nick’s sides, making no different in how he touches the scarred and the healthy side.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this. How the hell aren’t you grossed out?”

“Dude, you’re one to talk. Remember when you’d fucked my face and side up? I looked like a fucking car crash-poster boy for ‘Don’t drink and drive’. And yet you were on me like I was the hottest thing alive.”

Nick blushes a deep crimson, all the way to the tip of his ears. He licks his lips and draws breath as if he’s about to say something. But no words come.

“Huh. It did turn you on, didn’t it? You got a sadistic side lurking inside of ya?” Dean asks.

Nick twitches as if he’s aborting a shrug.

Dean chuckles. “Don’t sweat it, jackass. I don’t kink shame.”

“I think losing my temper and beating you senseless constitutes as something else than kink, wouldn’t you say?” Nick snipes curtly, shame making him defensive.

“Yeah, but your reaction to my bruises don’t. That was too much, but I like your marks on my body.”

Nick makes a low, rumbling sound. “I’m a sick dog, Dean. But not so sick that I don’t know it. ‘Too much’ is a bit of an understatement though. Whatever conclusion you’ve come to about me, you’re mistaken if you think I take pleasure out of _harming_ anyone I love. Strangers are another matter. The army knew what they were doing when they chose my line of work. They took a dark seed in me and made it blossom into something strong and ugly. I will always regret beating you up, or putting Mikey in the hospital. But the bruises I’ve caused you… I can’t _not_ find them beautiful, try as I might. And they _do_ excite me, while your distress and suffering distresses me. I won’t even pretend to understand the paradox in this.”

Dean snorts in amusement and kisses the edge of the scar between Nick’s shoulder blades. “You find bruises beautiful?”

“Yes. Very. Especially when I’ve caused them. But in general too. They shift in the same colours of the sky. Black, purple, blue, pink, green, yellow, brown. Watch a sunset and you know it’s true,” Nick says tightly.

“Guess you’re in luck then, huh?”

“How so?”

“Cuz I love rough sex, and take pleasure from pain. Up to a certain point. Just leave your marks where they can be hidden, and we’re good.” 

Nick makes a disbelieving noise and turns around to face him. “You make it sound like I shouldn’t feel ashamed of myself.”

Dean smirks. “Like I said, I don’t kink shame. But speaking of bruises, where the hell does this come from?” He touches a large bruise just by the edge of the ribs.

Nick looks down at spot Dean touches and chuckles. “That’s all you, darling.”

“What? When the fuck did I give you this?”

“In your sleep. Sometimes when you have nightmares, you fight, and you’re fucking impossible to wake up. Sometimes I restrain you, other times I just leave the bed and wait you out.”

“Oh, fuck. I’m really fucking sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know you have to deal with my nightmares too.”

“Yeah, but you don't fight.”

“That’s because I'm always fucking stuck, in my dreams. Can’t fucking move. I hear you sometimes. When you comfort me. Even if I don't wake up fully. It’s soothing,” Nick tells him.

Dean cringes inwardly, thinking about hurting Nick while he’s asleep. He'd done it to Mike too, occasionally. It always made him feel like shit since it was out of his control. Mike used to say it was a small price to pay for loving a soldier. Dean doesn’t agree. Violence against a loved one is only okay if it was earned or consensual. Yet Mike never mentioned it unless Dean asked about the strange bruises. Mike was perfectly content pretending everything was fine in the morning, no matter if Dean had fought demons in his sleep, or woken up crying like a fucking baby. 

Apparently, so is Nick. 

“You’re thinking too loudly again,” Nick scolds softly. “It’s no big deal. I can take an elbow in the ribs. I find it more alarming that I can't wake you when it happens. It means you're stuck in there, and I can't help you.”

“Whatever, man.” Dean doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t know how to get rid of the dreams, and as such feel the topic is best avoided. “You ever tried slapping me?”

“No. That would be unfair, would it not? You can hardly be punished for being haunted by your past.”

“Next time, try it. If it doesn't work, we'll know. If it works… Let’s just say I prefer a stinging cheek to being stuck in hell.”

The good thing about the uncomfortable subject, is that Nick forgets to be self conscious about his scarring. 

About an hour later, Dean aches comfortably all over. Ass throbbing, and new, cherished bruises from fingers and teeth blossoming. Nick has no problem finding the right side of painful while they’re having sex. Now Nick’s curled up, back against Dean’s chest, naked, breathing smoothing out and turning into little half snores. 

“We might not know why you got disowned, but at least we know why Mike won’t talk to you,” Dean muses. 

He’s surprised to hear Nick answer. “W’d y’ figr?” he mumbles, barely awake.

“If you drunkenly groped him in his sleep. Musta freaked him out.” It made sense. No matter how close they were, Dean would have freaked the fuck out if Sam rolled on top of him and started humping and kissing. Even if Mike had pretended like everything was alright in the morning, it might have taken a while for him to process and make a decision of what to do about it. 

“No. ‘S ‘ther way ‘round,” Nick mumbles. “He ‘nstigated.”

“What? _Mike_ instigated?” Dean asks, but this time snores is the only answer he gets. 

If that’s true, it no longer makes sense for Mike to keep away from Nick. 

Back to square one.

* * *


	55. Results

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter coming up sooooon. Promise.

* * *

# Results

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

`**Dean:** How’s it going, baby mama?`

`**Jess:** My boobs hurt and I feel sick. I think I’m pregnant, but I don’t know for sure. My period is due today or tomorrow. You’re supposed to wait a couple of days after you’ve missed it, before you take the test.`

`**Dean:** Like hell you are. I’m buying a couple of tests and coming over.`

`**Dean:** Wait. Are you at home?`

`**Dean:** Is Sam at home?`

`**Dean:** Just want to know if it took or not. But I’m thinking that Sam might get a bit suspicious if the handy man shows up with a bunch of pregnancy tests. ;)`

`**Jess:** Ha ha. He is at work. You’re welcome to come here.`

* * *

“How did it go?” Nick asks as soon as Dean steps inside the door.

Dean beams at him. “I’m gonna be a baby daddy. Jessy-Bean is pregnant alright!”

Nick whoops and catches him in a hug, spinning him around and making him laugh.

“She’s telling Sam tonight,” he continues when Nick puts him down. “So I figure tomorrow at lunch would be a good time to corner him.”

“Good thing you traded phone numbers with Jess. How did she act, seeing you again?”

“A bit awkward at first. But when I showed no sign of wanting to bone her again, she relaxed. Dude, I’m tellin ya, I’m gonna miss her. Wish letting go of Sammy, didn’t include letting go of her too.”

“You want to change the plan?”

“No. We’ll stick to it. But I think now it’s time for _you_ to make me a baby mama,” Dean says playfully, and waggles his eyebrows.

Nick chuckles, dark and huskily. “Oh, I’m gonna knock you up alright. Breed my little bitch like you deserve.” He hoists Dean up, hands around his ass, baring his teeth in a predatory smile, and carries him towards the bed.

Dean laughs, thrilled and instantly turned on. He’s lucky to have found someone who matches him so well in bed. Sam can wait until tomorrow.

* * *


	56. Storytime

* * *

# Storytime

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

“There he is. You ready?” Nick asks when they spot Sam coming out of the restaurant.

Dean’s heart is beating like a mad drum. If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t be nervous, but his gut still twists, thinking about Sam’s rejection. That Sam and Nick have slept together, doesn’t help. “Yep. I’m good to go.” He still aches for an alternative outcome, where Sam would have been happy to see him, and want to have him back in his life. It’s too late for that. But the longing lingers.

“I’ll stick around in case he gets violent.”

“Oy. I can handle kicking my little bro’s ass if needed,” Dean protests and puts a cigarette behind his ear.

“Fair enough.” Nick leans over for a quick kiss. “Good luck.”

“See you in a bit.” Dean gets out of the car, then bends down to look at Nick. “Hey, Nick?”

“What?”

“I told my girlfriend she drew her eyebrows too high. She seemed surprised.”

Nick gives him a pained look and snorts a silent laugh. Content, Dean smirks and closes the car door. He lights a cigarette as he walks, wanting the comfort, and pockets his pack and lighter. Sam’s walking from the restaurant to his office. A text convo with Jess had informed them that she had told Sam, and that he’d been ‘so surprised, but happy’.

Yeah right.

Shocked, more like it.

They’d counted on Sam not accusing Jess of cheating, not straight away at least, because he’d have to reveal his own lie. And a quick search on internet had shown that, however unlikely it is, the tubes cut in an vasectomy, can reunite over time. It happens rarely. But it happens.

Sam might have faked happiness in front of Jess, but they’ve been tailing him all day, and he’s been looking like a troubled, nervous wreck.

Dean takes long strides to catch up to his brother, and when he’s walking alongside of him, he says “Heya, Sammy.”

Sam startles and sidesteps. “Dean!”

Dean gives him a fake grin. “What’s up?”

Sam glares. “I told you to stay away from me,” he says curtly, then hastens his steps, trying to walk away.

“Yeah. Didn’t quite work out for ya, did it?” Dean chirps and takes a drag of his cig, having no trouble keeping up. Although, should Sam keep this pace, Dean’s leg would act up. “Don’t worry. I’ll fuck off, just like you want to. I just wanted to congratulate you on becoming a father first.”

Sam stops dead, eyes going wide, and spins around to stare at him accusingly. “ _No._ It was you. You did this to me, _again_.”

“Now, now, Sammy. No need to take that tone, Just saving your marriage, that’s all. It’s the least I can do. Call it a parting gift, if you will,” Dean says jovially and holds up his hands placatingly.

“Saving my―? Are you delusional?”

Dean blows a raspberry. “Not at all. Okay so here’s the story. My little brother goes to college. There he meets this totally _awesome_ , beautiful girl, that for some reason _likes_ him. He falls helplessly in love, and wants to spend the rest of his life with her. You with me so far? Right. She’s in love in him too, and is willing to go for his sorry ass in the long run, on one teeny, tiny, little condition. When time comes, she wants a baby. My little brother, does not. But he wants her, so he tells her one little white lie. When she asks if he wants kids, he says yes.”

“Dean.” Sam’s face sets in an angry bitchface.

“Not finished yet. Listen, Sammy. So my little brother and the awesome chick marries. She still wants kids, but he’s busy studying, and says to wait. He’s thinking, if they wait long enough, she’ll give up, and they’ll get a dog or whatever instead. She waits, but keeps talking about it. He gets a good job, hoping that providing a nice home for her, will make her forget, but she doesn’t. She’s getting more insistent that it’s time to stop using protection. Now my little brother, he _really_ doesn’t want kids. Especially not his own, as he thinks he’s cursed with demon blood or whatever. So he goes to get a vasectomy without telling his awesome wife. He still thinks she’ll give up the idea, if they just wait long enough.”

Sam looks disconcerted. “How did you―?”

“ _Not_ finished,” Dean stops Sam from talking and takes another drag on the cigarette. “So, they stop using protection, and the awesome wife doesn’t get pregnant. Years go by, and she starts getting desperate, because while the lie my little brother once told her, was little to him, it wasn’t for her. He’s had lots of dreams all his life. Become a lawyer, an astronaut, an archaeologist, a politician, whatever. But she’s only had one single dream since she was a little kid, and that was to become a mother. Nothing else. So she’s getting desperate. She goes to a fertility clinic, but they can’t find any fault with her. Obviously, since there is none. And he gets his own doctor to lie to her, saying there’s nothing wrong with him either. So she starts taking fertility drugs. Dangerous shit to mess around with. By now my little brother is freaking the fuck out. He’s scared shitless he’ll lose her if he tells her the truth, so he plays along. The lie grows bigger and bigger and puts a huge strain on their relationship. He keeps thinking she’ll give up. But what’s really happening is that she’s thinking of leaving him, to find someone that is able to impregnate her, so she can fulfill her lifelong dream of becoming a mom, before it’s too late.”

“Dean,” Sam demands.

“Nu-uh-uh.” Dean holds up his hand to indicate that Sam should just shut his fucking mouth and listen. “So one day, a handy man shows up and become friends with the awesome wife. And one time, when my little brother is out, the handy man makes the awesome wife an offer. He’ll sleep with her, to knock her up. He’s healthy. He’s fertile. And he’s _there_. He tells her that her husband will never have to know, and that she’ll no longer have to choose between a baby and the man she loves so fucking undeservedly. And she does the unthinkable, and cheats. The wonderful twist to all this, is that in the future, should a paternity test be done, my little brother will be pointed out as father, as by a miracle. The awesome wife couldn’t be happier, going about her life, never knowing what a fucking betrayal her selfish fucking husband made.”

Sam’s crossed his arms over his chest, nostrils flaring, staring bitterly at Dean. “How do you even know about the vasectomy?”

“Is that really what's important here? Tell me, Sammy, was there any part of the little fairytale, that sounded wrong to you? I'm right about everything, ain’t I?”

“Screw you.”

Dean smirks. “Do you even get how close she was to leaving you?”

Sam shakes his head in denial. “No she wasn't. You’re trying to ruin my life again. Can’t believe you pulled the same trick twice. So low, Dean.”

“Yes she was, Sammy. And you know what else? You woulda _deserved_ that. Those fertility drugs she's taking. Have you read up on them? Cuz I have. You fucking know she's been suffering from side effects from them. For _two fucking years!_ And you told her to get a fucking dog. Now _that's_ low.”

Sam has the decency to look ashamed. 

“So here's your choices, little bro,” Dean pummels on. “You told me you don’t want me in your life in any way whatsoever. I'm about to fuck off and stay gone, so all you need to do, to be rid of all things me, is divorce her. _Or,_ stay with her, raise my kid like it was your own, and suck it up. You get to keep the woman you love, and she will never know you made a vasectomy. But if you leave her, or hold her accountable for cheating, then you can bet that lily white ass of yours, she will find out about the vasectomy. And while we're at it, she, and the public I might add, will get to know what exactly you were doing the day she was ovulating.”

Sam sucks in a breath and stares at Dean in shock.

“Oh, I know what your cheating ass was up to that day. I kept tabs. You choose anything but honouring Jess, I'll make sure that every fucking mistake you've done, gets consequences that'll bite you in the ass. _That’s_ what you get for abandoning me.”

Upset, Sam protests. “You abandoned me first!” 

“Bullshit. I never abandoned you.”

“Yeah, you did. I needed you and you left.”

“I got a _job_ , Sammy. A job. You were nearly old enough for college. I didn’t abandon you. I came home on every leave and wrote you once or twice a month. I didn’t stop coming home until you guys stopped answering the phone when I called ahead. That’s not abandonment. Besides, you were fucking fine. Dad never touched you.” He did, but not in the way he went after Dean. It was nothing, in comparison. And the accusation twists Dean’s stomach. Leaving for the army at the age of twenty wasn’t fucking abandonment. He’d stayed two years longer than he wanted, just to keep an eye on his family. But at sixteen, Sam should damned well be able to take care of himself.

“Not until you left. You know what he did, every time those damned letters came? He'd take them from me, or intercept them. Then he'd read them, drink himself into a stupor and cry. After that he'd come for me. Apparently, according to him, it was my fault you left,” Sam says with a bitter twist to his mouth.

Guilt.

He feels it. Just like he felt about taking mom away from Sam. But neither was his fault or his responsibility. He reminds himself of that now.

“And you’re blaming me for that? Yeah, I'm done taking blame for the actions of adult alcoholics. I've had to suffer for their actions since I was eight and mom decided to step into the road six feet in front of a moving car. That's not my fault, Sammy. Just like it isn't my fault that dad blamed you for something that wasn't your fault either. So you got your ass kicked for something you didn’t do? Congratulations, join the club. Besides, you never _told me_. You coulda. You were fucking devil spawn towards me, and I still woulda done anything to protect you. But nope. You didn’t tell me. Just like you never told me I knocked that chick up. Which is fucking bullshit too. What if I wanted to step up to the plate and take my responsibility as a dad?”

“Did you?” Sam asks skeptically.

“No. But that’s beside the point, ain’t it? I coulda. But you didn't let me.”

“Dad ordered me to keep my mouth shut. He didn’t want us to ruin your life,” Sam tells him and leans against the wall, arms firmly crossed in front of him.

“Dad. Fuck dad. You have a mind of your own. You coulda told me. As for ruining my life, it was my fucking action, and if it had consequences, it shoulda been on me. I wanted to get back at you for all the times you’d fucked me over, all the beatings you got me by being a little shit. As far as I’m concerned, you’d gotten your punishment. Getting accused of being the dad, and then later, of rape, was _not_ the plan. Once the punishment is served, the slate is clean. That’s the rules.” 

“This is why I want you out of my life, Dean. You don’t have the right to punish anyone. If someone wrongs you in a way that’s illegal, you leave the matter to the justice system. If it isn’t illegal, you don’t have the right to mete out a punishment. The only right you have, is to walk away and cut them out of your life. _That’s it_. It took me years to understand that, and the moment you stepped inside my home, I felt myself slipping back into who we were raised to be. And I wasn’t raised to be a good person, you know that. I was raised to be a selfish, mean asshole, and you were raised to be subservient, needy, and controlling, all at once. I don’t _like_ who I was back then. I’ve fought tooth and nail to change, and having you back, I felt myself slipping. The damned _anger_ I always felt growing up. It came bubbling straight back, at the sight of you. Just look at what I said to you! I told you I wanted you dead, for God sake. That isn’t even remotely true. Not at all. But I said it, solely to hurt you. I haven’t been like that for _years_.”

Dean raises his hand to take another drag of his cigarette. He’s horrified to find his hand trembling. He blows the smoke out, making three smoke rings, to buy time. He has no idea why he’s reacting so strongly to Sam confessing that he doesn’t wish he would have died in Afghanistan.

Sam blows out a sharp breath through his nose and rubs a hand over his face. “Look. You were right. About Jess. I fell in love with her. She said she’d never date a guy that didn’t want kids. So I said it. I said I wanted kids. I didn’t think it was such a big deal. And Jess is good for me. She put up with me when I was struggling, trying to change, trying to beat a drug addiction, trying to cope with anger issues. She was there, and she taught me to talk about my feelings, to be kind and supportive. To like myself.”

“Bet you like yourself real fucking much, considering what you put her through,” Dean says venomously.

“No, I―” Sam takes a deep breath. Dean steps closer, trying not to get jostled by someone passing them on the sidewalk. Sam goes on. “It snowballed out of my hands. I figured we could adopt if she couldn’t conceive.”

“But she doesn’t want _a_ kid, Sammy. She wants _her_ kid.”

“Yeah, no. I get that. I do. I didn’t, back then. But I do now. And it’s been eating me up. I feel so guilty I can barely look her in the eyes anymore. But I don’t know how to rectify it without losing her.”

“Fucking someone else ought to do the trick,” Dean says sarcastically.

Sam looks away, blushing. He swallows audibly, but doesn’t answer. His face falls into that damn fucking sad puppy expression that _still_ makes Dean want to hug him and tell him everything’s gonna be alright. 

“Lucky for you I solved it for ya,” Dean adds.

Sam shakes his head and looks back at Dean. “No. You don’t get it, Dean. We’ve got bad blood. We shouldn’t be allowed to breed. I was doing the world a favour by getting myself sterilised. It’s in our DNA. To begin with, I was a sickly child. I know that. And I’m still struggling with cravings from my past drug addiction. Everyone in our family have been addicts. We’re predisposed for it.”

“Fuck sake, Sammy. For someone so smart, you can be such a fucking retard. There are people out there that are predisposed to be world class athletes, yet they sit on their asses and eat all day. Predisposed does not mean predestined. It’s about choices. In our case the choice was taken from us, and it’s probably the reason you were such a sickly child.”

“What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ ,” Dean says with exaggerated patience, “mom never stopped drinking. Not while she was pregnant, and not while she was breastfeedin’ ya. And when we had trouble sleepin’, they’d put some cognac in our milk bottles and feed it to us. At least, they did that to you, and it’d knock you clear out. I suspect they did it to me too. Using fucking logic, I’d say mom was more careful when she had me, since I was her first. Then you came and she didn’t give a fuck anymore. That’s not predisposition, that’s shitty parenting by addicts. You an’ Jess, y’all won’t be doing those fucked up choices. At least, Jess won’t. So no matter how _predisposed_ our kid’s gonna be, you’ll give it a good, stable ground to stand on, and chances are, it won’t grow up to make our shitty choices.”

Sam looks at the ground and runs a hand through his hair, looking troubled.

“And if you force Jess to do have an abortion I’ll fucking kill ya. No joke. You’re dead, you hear?” Dean adds and points a finger threateningly at Sam.

Sam’s gaze snaps to him, eyes widening. “ _Jesus,_ no. I’d never do that.”

“Yeah, you’d better remember that. I’m gonna walk away now. I’ll stay the fuck away as long as you play nice with Jess, and our kid. Make him or her the first Winchester to grow up in a sound home. And don’t fuck this up, or I’ll be back.” Dean turns around and walks away from the direction he came.

“ _Dean_!” Sam calls out for him, but he ignores it and keeps walking.

* * *


	57. Brothers

* * *

# Brothers

3 years, 2 month (2 year, 5 month)

 

Dean tries not to gnash his teeth in frustration. Nick’s been side eyeing him for the last twenty minutes or so. Ever since they got into the car. He knows what's coming. It’s just a matter of time before― 

“You okay?”

There it is. 

“Christ! I'm _fine_. It’s been days. Will you let it go already?” Dean snipes. Nick is like a dog with a bone.

“You haven’t talked about it yet, and you’re not fine.” Nick pushes the button to open the window and flicks his cigarette butt out.

“Jeezus. And they call _me_ stubborn. What do you want me to say, huh?”

“I don’t know, darling. You drank yourself unconscious and then you've pretended everything is fine only to repeat the process. I'm worried about you.”

Fine. So _maybe_ he's been drinking frightening levels of booze since his he confronted Sam. It hasn't helped. 

“Fuck sake. It’s nothing to worry about. I'm trying to forget about him, that's all. From what we've seen, Sammy chose to pretend he thinks the kid's his. Jess is happy and Sam’s forever stuck with a part of me in his life. The traitorous fuck got what he deserves and everyone's happy. Now let it go.”

“You’re not happy.”

“I’m ecstatic,” Dean answers dryly. “Now, leave it the fuck be.” 

“I would, if you weren’t trying to drink yourself to death.”

“I’m not.” They’re driving through a suburban area and Dean spots something familiar through the chain mesh fence in one of the yards. “Hey, isn’t that the Mavises we met in the park?”

“It is! _Oooo_ ,” Nick coos in delight, allowing himself to be (possibly momentarily) distracted.

“Seriously, babe. You’re like a little kid,” Dean remarks as Nick presses himself against the window to look at the dogs, turning his body not to lose them from view after they've passed them.

“Is it really safe to have them unsupervised it the yard like that? They’re so small. An eagle could get them.”

“Dude. They’re probably watching them through the window or something. Besides, are there even eagles around here?”

Nick turns around when the dogs are out of sight. “No. But there might be dog thieves. Or bigger dogs jumping the fence. Or―”

Dean chuckles. “Dude, chill. Ain’t nobody’s gonna steal any dogs in a neighbourhood like this.” He shakes his head at Nick’s sceptical expression. “Why are we going back home already anyway?”

“I’m introducing you to my brothers.”

“They’re in town?”

“Aside from Mikey? No.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and gives Nick a bemused look. Nick doesn’t elaborate, just looks out of the side window, so Dean sighs. He might as well give in to get Nick to let go. “Alright, fine. It’s fucking me up, about Sam. He said I abandoned him. He also told me dad went after him once I wasn’t around. I feel guilty as fuck. I don’t agree that I abandoned him. I wrote him, I came home on leaves, and I’ve had the same phone number since I got my first cell phone. I wasn’t always available, no, but I wasn’t _gone_ , just far away.”

Nick turns to look at him as soon as he starts speaking. “Did you know your dad went after him when you left?”

“No. And I had no reason to suspect he would. Sam never told me either.”

“Then why are you feeling guilty?”

Dean chuckles ruefully. “Integral part of my personality?” he suggests.

Nick snorts and looks out the window again.

“I know, I know. I mean, I _know_. It’s not just that. I’m panicking a bit about letting go.” It scares him. It scares the shit out of him. Sam’s been one of his anchors for almost all his life. Every letter he penned to his little brother, whether they were ever read or not, served to keep him grounded. Just leaving that made it hard to breathe if he thought too hard about it. Which he did. Of course. 

“You don’t have to. If you want to stick around and badger him into taking you back―”

“No. I don’t want to do that. I said I’d fuck off, and I will. But you’re right. I’ve been drinking too much. I’ll cut back.” Dean sighs again and flips on the blinkers before turning into the parking lot by their hotel. “Oh, and Mike’s been texting me, which got me wondering… Don Richardson, he was at our wedding, right?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s Mike’s secretary?”

“Uhuh?”

“Roman’s friends with Mike too?”

“Yes?”

“And your brothers talk to Mike too. So how come Mike doesn’t seem to know about our marriage?” Dean asks and parks the car just outside their door.

“Simple. Nobody tells him anything concerning me anymore. Plus Naomi is the only of the guests who knows you’re Mike’s ex. Dicky may have deducted that too perhaps, but he’d never tell. He’s got use for his friendship with both of us.”

“Got use? That’s a specific way to phrase it,” Dean states as they get out of the car.

“Well, yes. I doubt we would have remained friends if friendship was the _only_ benefit he’d have. Mike and he collaborates often enough, business wise, and I’ve… I’ve done him, um, favours, in the past.”

Dean sniggers. “Favours, huh? That sounds shady.”

Nick looks uncomfortable while he unlocks the motel door. “Are you sure you don’t want me withholding stuff, darling? Some things you might be better off not knowing.”

“You’re kidding? That level of shady?” Dean asks while he follows Nick inside and closes the door behind them.

“Yes.”

“I’m all ears, babe. Ain’t nothing you can reveal to me that will scare me off.” Dean starts shedding clothes as soon as they’re inside, getting himself naked. 

Nick hums dubiously and gets his laptop from his bag. “It’s more a case of the less you know, the less might be used against you in the future. Knowing about it would basically make you an accomplice.”

“I don’t give a shit. I’m fed up with you withholding crap.” Dean lays down naked on top of the covers and grabs the cigarette pack on the night stand. It’s Nick’s, (another brand than Dean’s) but they’ll do. He takes two out and lights them at the same time, then holds out one for Nick when Nick comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

Nick takes the cig, takes a deep drag, pinches the cig between his lips, opens the laptop on the bed and switches it on. “Fair enough. Twice I’ve helped Dicky solve delicate problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

Nick blows out smoke through his nose and very pointedly doesn’t look at Dean. “The kind that needs gloves and silencer to solve.”

Dean whistles. “No shit?”

Nick shrugs, trying to seem indifferent and failing. He’s too tense around the shoulders and eyes not to care. “I have talents, and I might as well use them to benefit my friends, while on leave.”

Dean puts a hand under his head and stares up at the ceiling while he mulls this over. Is he shocked? Yes. We’re talking premeditated murder, not just accidentally beating someone to death in a brawl that got out of hand. It’s definitely a _Whoa_ -moment. He glances at Nick fiddling with the laptop. Nick’s trying not to look nervous about Dean’s verdict. “Is that the only time you’ve… um… aside from in the army, I mean.”

“No. Mikey was getting threats by someone whose girlfriend he’d fucked. He didn’t _know_ she had a boyfriend at the time. Not that it matters. This guy was threatening to shoot him. Mikey told me when I was home on leave, so I took care of it. It wasn’t clean cut. I wasn’t as smooth as I’m now, and this predates the jobs I did for Dicky. Plus, emotions ran a bit too high.”

“Really? Tell me what happened,” Dean urges and sits up. 

“I was pissed the hell off, so instead of blowing his brains out like I should, I used my hands. I wanted it to hurt. We had a scuffle before I got on top of it. He didn’t die until two months later. Fell into a coma he never awoke from. The problem with that was that he was the son of someone very rich, and I kept expecting the cops to make the connection that’d lead them to me. It’s more than a decade ago. Mikey still lived mostly at the estate. I wasn’t welcome there by dad, even if I hadn’t been disowned yet, but I snuck in unseen, and Mikey took care of my blemishes. Stupid. Might have given them something to track. As far as I know, the cops never got on my tail, and nobody knows but Mikey.”

“Fuck me,” Dean breathes wide eyed. It could have gone very wrong.

Nick misinterprets his reaction and throws him a threatening glare. “He said he’d shoot Mikey.”

Dean holds his hands up placatingly. “Yeah, no. I get it. I woulda done the same for Sam. Hell, I’ve done the same, only it didn’t lead to anyone dying.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Sam was fourteen when he got entangled with this junkie chick, Ruby. She kept getting him to do drugs with her. Weed, oxy, shit like that. I told him he couldn’t hang with her, but he’d never listen. But then I caught her offering him heroin. He said no, but I knew it was just a matter of time. And since I couldn’t get him to stay away, I beat the crap outta her. Told her to steer clear of him or it would be worse the next time. So she did. I wouldn’t normally beat a girl in anything but self defense, but Sam’s safety was compromised.” Dean shrugs. He’d been too mad to ever feel guilty about it. Besides, Ruby had ODd one year later, so it was all good.

Nick’s lips curl in a sardonic little smile. “And you claimed that you two hated each other,” he teases.

“We did. But all we had was each other. Beside the point. You know you’re fucked up, right? As in real fucking fucked up in the head.”

Nick deflates. He looks back at the laptop. “I know…” he says quietly. “But you asked.”

“Hey, hey,” Dean coos and scoots himself to sit against Nick’s back, legs on either side of his waist. “Makes no difference to me.”

And it doesn’t. It really doesn’t. He’s not sure what to do with this information. It should probably upset him somehow, that his husband is a bonafide killer―not just a soldier. Which, okay, if you look at it crassly, is just a government sanctioned killer. But still. 

“You like doing stuff like that?” Dean asks as an afterthought. 

Nick removes the cigarette from his mouth and tips his head back to rest against Dean’s shoulder. “Mmh. I know it’s wrong. I’m not stupid. But it gives me one hell of a rush. I wouldn’t even considered doing things like that if it wasn’t for the stupid impulse to join the army. Once they dropped me into real combat, these... _feelings_ , fucking exploded in me. I've told you, I'm a sick dog. But not completely psycho. It’s not a _need_. I've got a conscience, and I can discern right from wrong. It only flies out the window when friends and family are concerned. So don't think I'll lose my shit and go on a murder spree or something.”

“What if I wanted us to?” Dean probes curiously, and takes a drag of his cig. 

“Do you?”

“ _No_. Jeezus. Just checking.”

Nick smirks. “I've told you, there's no road I won't follow you down. It’s up to you to decide if us against the world is literal or metaphorical.”

Dean snorts in amusement. “Yeah, okay. If I get my wish, we ain’t going down in history as serial killers, that's for damned sure.”

Nick hums contentedly. “Good. I don’t mind being a troublemaker, but I'd prefer not being a monster.”

“Glad we're on the same page. Does Mike know you've helped Dick out?”

“Mikey knows everything. Before he shunned me, I withheld nothing to him.”

“Huh. Di―“

The laptop makes a loud noise that startles Dean to flinch.

Nick chuckles and pulls the laptop onto his thighs. “Right on time.” He hits a button and a window with a camera feed opens up. Gabe comes into view, caramel hair and amber eyes, snow in the background. He’s wearing a sky blue Hawaii shirt with pink, smiling dicks on, colourful floaties on his upper arms, a swimming ring in the shape of a yellow duck around his middle, and a brown golf cap on his head. 

“Heeeey. Luci and Deano. Sorry I couldn't be at your wedding, fellas,” Gabe greets with a smirk. 

“No worries,” Dean answers. “Hey, what’s with the golf cap?” It’s the only thing that isn’t strange, and therefore it is.

Both Nick and Gabe sniggers. “I like the way your mind works, Deano,” Gabe says and begins to shed the inflatable plastics he’s wearing. He unbuttons the Hawaiian shirt and sheds it too, revealing an ordinary dark shirt underneath, then picks up a jacket from off camera. So apparently, it was some sort of test. Figures. “So you guys decided to keep both names, huh? Dad will love that. But I guess Winchester isn’t an uncommon name.”

Nick smirks and Dean blows an amused raspberry. “Not as common as y’all Williams people seem to think,” Dean says and winks at the built in webcam. It’s like they’re all reading scripts on how to react on the name.

Gabe directs his eyes to Nick’s face, takes in his shit eating grin, and whistles on an inhale while shrugging into the jacket. “You’re one of _the_ Winchesters?” he asks Dean.

Nick answers. “Mhm. He sure is,” he purrs like a content cat.

“I’m the oldest son of John Winchester. Nice to meet you.”

Gabe gets an odd, excited gleam in his eyes. “Same.” He flips his gaze to Nick and waggles a finger chastisingly. “Ooooh boy. This is gold, Luci. You know you’ve _got_ to introduce him to dad.”

“I don’t kn―”

“He’s gonna,” Dean cuts in and disentangles himself temporarily to reach for the glass-turned-ashtray to drop his cig in it. He hears Gabe speaking while he stretches as far as he can to reach, probably exposing himself more than most of the prude population of the world finds acceptable.

“Is he naked?”

Nick, smugly answering, “Always.”

“Right on,” Gabe comments appreciatively. The Williams boys know how to appreciate nudity, Dean will give them that.

Dean sits back against Nick’s back again, hanging over his shoulder to talk to Gabe. “Gabe. Is there any public event coming up, where both Marlon and Mike will be present?”

“Yeah. There’s a ball the seventeenth.”

“Invitations only, I presume. Can you get us in, and will there be press there? Like Gold Crusted reporters, for an instance,” Dean asks.

“Dean,” Nick cautions, but Dean ignores him in favour of focusing on the family prankster, whose eyes light up gleefully, narrowing slyly. This is going to be Nick’s time to prove it’s them against the world, and Gabe figures what Dean wants to do straight away.

They talk to Gabe for an hour. He’s a cool guy who apparently can’t resist mischief. Ten minutes in they flip position so Dean’s lying with the laptop on his belly, Nick lying beside him with, petting his chest while being content to listen to rather than participate in the conversation. Gabe tells hilarious stories about past pranks, and talks about weird food he’s tried. Overall it’s a good ‘first meeting’. 

They have to hang up because Cas is due to call. Dean’s happy he wasn’t told about this in advance, or he’d been nervous about being introduced to the brothers. Yet again, Nick’s given him something Mike withheld. Eloping sure as hell was a good idea.

* * *


	58. Couple’s Therapy

* * *

# Couple’s Therapy

3 years, 2 months (2 years, 5 months)

“Say it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Come on, darling. _Say it._ ” Nick’s waaay to chirpy. 

Dean’s more of a morning person than Nick, even if they both fall into that category. But this is just absurd. Nick’s being a little shit on purpose. Dean covers his face with the pillow to shut Nick’s playful smirk out. “Go. Away.”

Nick straddles his chest, putting all his weight on it. “SaaAAAaay IiiIIiit,” he sings. Out of tune, naturally.

“I’ve already said it. You _know_ I do. Why are you like this?” Dean complains, muffled by the pillow.

Nick starts poking him rhythmically on the chest, chanting “Sayitsayitsayitsayitsayit…”, fending off Dean’s feeble tries to swat his hands away.

Dean rips the pillow from his face and glares at Nick, meeting a gleefully impish expression with a fed up glower of his own. “Fucking _fine_. I love you. There. I said it. Happy now?” It still causes a jolt of panic down his spine, and his stomach to twist uncomfortably, to say it out loud.

Nick grins at him and bends down to press his nose against Dean’s, blue eyes swallowing Dean’s whole field of vision. “I love you too, Dean Winchester Williams.”

In spite of himself, Dean lets out a pained chuckle. “You’re a menace.”

“That’s why you love me.”

“Fuck off and let me sleep,” Dean protests without much heat and closes his eyes. Nick gets off of him, and for a moment Dean (stupidly) thinks he’s going to oblige. Then Nick grabs his foot and forcibly pulls him off the bed. Dean yelps and manages to catch himself in time not to get hurt in the landing. He laughs and Nick sniggers. “Asshole. I'm gonna get you for that,” he threatens. 

“I'd like to see you tr― _Ouff!_ ”

Dean launches himself at Nick, tackling him with a grip around the midriff before Nick finishes the sentence. They tumble to the floor, wrestling and laughing like morons. When Dean has Nick pinned to the floor, red-faced, winded, and beaming up at him, he knows that it’s because Nick let him win. It doesn’t matter. Dean’s pride is intact either way. He feels all warm and gooey inside. Nick’s so cute like this. Playful like a child and hair a total mess. “I love you,” Dean says. The words feel foreign on his tongue, but this time, the anxiety of uttering them is slightly reduced. 

“I love you too, darling.”

* * *

“For the love of―! Would you cut the light?” Nick protests when Dean steps into the bathroom and switches the light button on. 

“Nope,” he answers, popping the P. He sheds the sweatpants he’s been wearing and steps into the shower with his sulking husband. “If I did, I wouldn't be able to see you.”

“You see enough when we sleep,” Nick snipes. Because that sentence apparently makes total sense in Nick’s mind. 

“I've got a hot husband and I wanna enjoy his nekkid booty, so I'm gonna,” Dean explains and reaches for the shower gel. 

“Hot,” Nick scoffs. “And you call _me_ fucked up. Pfft.”

Dean shoves him out from under the spray, puts a dollop of gel in his hand, puts the bottle on the shelf and reaches for Nick to lather him up. He makes sure to rub the weird pleasure spots on the scar tissue as he goes. Nick lets him do it, which is good. He would have bullied Nick into letting him, if he hadn’t. “Yeah, hot. I agree that the remake ain’t as perfect as the original,” Nick snorts in amusement when Dean says that, “but I find you fucking hot anyway. I can see the risks of inflating your ego, babe, but you need to stop being such a sissy about it.”

“I’m not a sissy,” Nick bristles and lifts his arms to let Dean lather him up under the armpits. Dean withholds a smirk about the juxtaposition of Nick hissing like a wet cat while at the same time cooperating with the treatment he’s given.

“Yep, you are. And we’re gonna de-sissify you so you’ll stop with this hiding business.”

“I don’t like you,” Nick mutters sullenly.

“Sure you do. It’s yerself ya don’t like. Now turn around.”

How the hell Nick manages to stomp like a teenager in a foul mood, while only turning around in a small shower, mystifies Dean. But Dean knows what he’s doing with his hands. It doesn’t take long before Nick leans forward against the wall to just enjoy the massage he’s getting, all the while making appreciative noises.

“Hey, so I’ve been wondering how it got like this.”

“I burned,” Nick deadpans dryly.

“Yeah, no. I get _that_. But why ain’t your arm burnt too, and why is it so neat on this side,” Dean pries and runs a finger all along the edge of the scar on the back, “and all jagged on the front?”

Nick takes a deep breath through his mouth and lets it out slowly through his nose. “I think… I think the initial grenade wasn’t the cause of the fire, to be honest. The grenade knocked me out, and I was on fire when I awoke, lying on my side and belly, arm by my head.” He shows his position approximately by mimicking it, standing against the wall. “I think something was thrown on me and lit on fire while I was unconscious. But I’m not sure.”

“Some liquid, huh? Yeah, makes sense. Your front was mostly shielded, and the scars there look like something’s run.”

“I had burns on the back of my upper arm too, but they were from heat due to proximity to the fire, so they’ve healed completely.” Nick goes back to his original position, giving Dean full access to his back again.

Dean takes a dollop of shampoo and tells Nick to close his eyes and tip his head back. Nick obliges and Dean talks about other things while he massages Nick’s head. Not until he’s grabbed the shower head and is washing shampoo and body wash off, does he bring the scar up again. “Hey, this looks like two people hugging,” he says and traces a couple of wrinkled lines on the scar.

“It does _not_ ,” Nick mutters in annoyance.

“Yeah, it does. And here’s batman,” Dean insists and traces a knotted ridge in the scarring.

“Bullshit.”

“I swear, babe. Ain’t fucking with ya. And this here looks like an ancient tree.”

“For the love of―!” Nick gets out of the shower and goes to the mirror. He wipes the fog off of it and twists around to watch his back with a scowl. 

Dean shuts the water off and comes to stand beside him. “Here. Here’s the tree,” he explains and traces the tree-like shape on the scar. “And here’s batman. Just the head. See these points? The bat ears of his mask. And here’s the two people hugging. Watch. One arm here, and this is a head, and this is the back of one of them, and…” he points and traces outlines while he explains. Nick squints at the mirror, first in annoyance, then with a huh-expression.

“I guess you can see it that way,” Nick concedes reluctantly. “If you’re completely ridiculous. Now get in the shower so I can wash you.”

It’s the first time Dean’s seen Nick deliberately look at his own scarring without an expression of utter disgust.

* * *

Dean’s clawing at Nick’s back, head thrown back, body covered with sweat, and so fucking close to orgasm. “Fuck, baby, fucking _fuck_ ,” he grits out eloquently.

Nick nibbles at his earlobe, hair plastered to his forehead by sweat, arm muscles flexing. Dean’s legs are hooked over his shoulders as he’s bending Dean in half, grinding in a way that hits the magic spot juuust right. “ _Say it,_ ” Nick commands, right in his ear. Dean whines in protest. “Say it, or I’ll stop.”

It’s hard to talk this close to an orgasm. “You’re not p-p-playing fair. _Jesusfuckdon’tstop!_ ”

Nick stops with a downright evil smirk. “Say. It.”

“ **Fuck**! I love you, alright? Just don’t fucking stop!”

“Love you too, sweetheart,” Nick purrs and starts up again, this time pushing on until Dean (fucking finally) comes.

* * *

Nick’s naked on his belly in bed, playing his stupid candy crush game. Dean lies on his side beside him and traces the scar with his finger.

“Will you stop?” Nick snipes impatiently.

“No can do, sweet cheeks. I’m reading our future in this.”

“Uh-huh,” Nick says dryly. “Please, _do_ tell,” he urges disinterestedly, taking the bait.

“This ridge, over here, means we’re gonna have fifteen children.” Nick snorts in amusement so Dean goes on. “That’s quite a lot. I’m gonna begrudge you the stretchmarks on my belly and the extra fat around my ankles. I think we’ll have to give some away for Christmas. You know, to relatives and stuff. Why send pictures of ‘em when you can just hand over one each, right?”

Nick sniggers silently, shoulders shaking. “Right.”

“Oh and this knot, means you’re gonna meet a tall, dark, stranger. Wait, you already did that. Nevermind.” Dean gets a giggle in reward. “Oh and there’s gonna be a feast,” he adds and runs his finger along another scar.

“What feast?”

“I dunno. There’s always a feast somewhere.”

“Fair enough. And where are we going to live?” Nick asks with an indulgent grin while putting his phone away and peeking over his shoulder at Dean.

Dean pokes his tongue out in concentration and makes a big show out of searching through the scarring for an answer. His finger stops by a dark indentation. “You know those two storey, suburban houses with white picket fences?”

“Yes?”

“Not one of those, I’m afraid,” Dean informs him ruefully.

Nick laughs. “And what…” he starts asking questions that Dean makes up silly bullshit answers to, finding places on the scarring that supposedly tells him this. It’s not important. The important thing is that Nick forgets to be self-conscious about his scarring, and gets used to Dean looking, poking, and prodding at it. Dean’s goal is for Nick to be so unbothered by his looks, that he’ll chug off his shirt without second thought if they ever go to a public beach, and that he’ll tell anyone who complains that they can go fuck themselves.

It’s slow going. But it seems to be working. And making up games seems to do the trick. Like when he plays connect the let’s-call-it-dots on Nick’s back with a marker, drawing figures. That ends with Nick finding and drawing two flowers on his frontal scarring. Flowers, of course, since he’s a nerd. And he starts forgetting to always switch off the light when he showers alone, and sometimes when Dean stands beside him, he’ll shave and brush his teeth without a shirt on.

One day, when they’re sitting at a restaurant, eating dinner, Dean asks “Have you ever thought about covering it up with tattoos? I mean, I don’t give a shit, but maybe you’d prefer that?”

“What are you talking about?”

Dean chews his steak and gestures at his mouth, for Nick to wait for his answer. He swallows, and explains “Your scars. Many people do that, you know? You could, I dunno, find as many flowers and roses and shit in your scars as you’d like, then fill the rest up with vines and stuff.”

“Never thought about it.”

They don’t talk about it further, but Nick starts looking in windows of tattoo parlors, and often as not traces the outlines of possible flowers on his scars. It’s a win. Hell, Nick just looking at his scars without being baited to it, is a major win.

* * *

They’re strolling through the city center, window shopping and looking at people when Nick, the fucktard, goes “Say it,” straight out of the blue.

“Fuck sake, Nicky. Not again.”

“I want to hear it.”

“You know, if one says it too often, it loses its value.”

Nick snorts. “That’s only true for those who says it to everyone without meaning it. We _do_ love each other, very much. But we’re also insecure assholes that need to be reminded of the fact, or, what was it you said? The demons drown out the silence.”

“No fair, using my own words against me,” Dean complains.

Nick grabs his wrist and pulls so they end up face to face. “Just say it, Dean.”

“Fine. I love you, asshole.”

“Nu-uh-uh. Say it like you mean it, without the spikes attached. Nothing bad’s going to happen.” Nick entwines their fingers and looks at Dean with soft, but unrelenting, patience.

Dean swallows. It shouldn’t be this fucking hard. It shouldn’t. So why does he feel like running and hiding?

“I love you, Nick. I love you so fucking much it hurts, sometimes,” he manages to get out at last, feeling embarrassingly vulnerable.

Nick gives him a soft, warm smile. He raises a hand and strokes some hair away from Dean’s forehead. “Me too, darling. I’m so grateful I have you.” Then he bends his neck to give Dean a sweet, chaste kiss, that somehow manages to steal Dean’s breath away.

They keep walking, this time hand in hand. Dean feels lighter, somehow. He puts his free hand in his pocket, to take up his pack of cigarettes. Somebody on the street sneers “Fags,” at them as they pass. Dean just raises his pack above his head and quips “No thanks. Got my own.” It doesn’t even ruin his mood a little bit.

* * *


	59. Gabriel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I'm paying a tiny homage to Kings of Con. :) 
> 
> Also, there's a reference to the movie/s Meet the parents, and Meet the Fockers in this.

* * *

# Gabriel

3 years, 3 months (2 years, 6 months)

 

It’s exactly three years since Nick got injured. Funny how it coincides with the ball. They’re dolled up in tuxedos and waiting in their motel room, aiming to leave at a time that will give them enough time to do recon, but not force them to stay too long. Rather than getting them real invitations, Gabe had gotten them press badges with phony names. “Nobody looks at them anyway,” Gabe explains and hands them over. He’s flown in to watch, but will keep a low profile, since he’s told everyone he wouldn’t come.

Dean looks at the name on his badge. ‘Pat McRotch’. He chuckles. “What did you get?” he asks Nick.

Nick, looking fed up, turns his badge so Dean can see. 

‘Gaylord Focker’

Dean cackles. “Awesome. It’s perfect, since I’m gonna meet the parents.” Nick gives him an unimpressed look, so Dean does his best DeNiro impression. “I'm sure they're decent people. I mean they gotta be if they named their son Gaylord Focker.”

Nick gives him an exaggerated eyeroll and Gabe laughs. “Right on! Comedy gold,” the shorter brother exclaims. He’s as keen on vague symbolism as Nick is.

“Fuck yeah!” Dean agrees.

Gabe holds out his hands low, wiggling his fingers. “Nachos,” he croons.

“Hot sauce,” Dean responds in falsetto and slaps his hands on Gabe’s.

Nick throws his hands up in an I’m-so-done-I-give-up gesture. “You’ve barely known each other more than an hour. I should never have introduced you two. You’re both retards and I’m not high enough for any of this.”

“Awww. Is my little tootsie-poo nervous?” Dean coos mockingly and adjusts Nick’s bowtie. Gabe hides his smirk behind his hand and Nick’s eyes shoot daggers.

“Oh, for the love of―!” Nick hisses and swats his hands away, then with a final reproachful glare, stomps off to the bathroom.

“He really is nervous, you know?” Gabe states somberly as soon as Nick’s out of the room.

“Yeah, I get that. But to my experience, pissing him off makes him braver.”

“Any kind of mockery will do.”

“I know. You think he should be nervous?”

Gabe shrugs, but it’s not an I-don’t-know kind of shrug, more something apologetic, like he’s ashamed of admitting something. “Father is not a man to be trifled with. Luci’s always been the one to confront dad head on. But it’s a bit like seeing a goat go up against an ox. It’s not a fair fight, and he knows it. You’ll get it when you meet him. I personally bounce around the world like a pinball ball to _avoid_ meeting him.”

“Right. Hey can I ask you something?”

“Shoot, Dean _o_ ,” Gabe encourages. 

“Why don’t you own property?”

“Who says I don’t?”

“ _All_ your brothers,” Dean retorts dryly.

“Ah. Yes. But they for some reason find great pride in the family name,” Gabe answers slyly.

“So does Pat McRotch own property?” Dean hazards. 

Gabe taps his temple with a content grin. “I see why Luci likes you. You’ve got those mainframe wires all hooked up. And yes. Patty owns a nice vineyard in Tuscany, should you feel like taking up residence. If you can convince Luci to accept property, I’ll gladly provide something for you. Though Luci doesn’t like being given things willy nilly. Either, he wants to move in with you, or he wants to take care of himself. There’s no in between. Only Mikey could…” Gabe trails off. “Nevermind.”

Dean remembers Nick’s reluctance to accept help from him after his eviction, not saying yes until Dean said he’d pay with Mike’s money. And then he’d refused Dean to pay more than two months rent. Once they were living together he had no trouble accepting Dean paying for anything though. Interesting that the same thing held true for his brothers. “Nick says you don’t talk to Mike about him?”

“Not anymore, we don’t. Mikey freaks out and gets angry. If you ask my opinion, he seems afraid. I wonder what dad’s got on him. There’s no way I’ll believe that Mikey would turn his back on Luci without extortion. I’ve been trying to figure it out, but I’m stumped.”

“Isn’t the threat of disownment enough?”

“Oh _please_. Like any of us would care about that. Sure, Cassie and I are keeping a low profile, but if push comes to shove, we'll abandon ship like plague rats. We’re all well off and skilled enough not to need daddy, Mikey included. The girls are another matter. Until they marry, they’re dependent. They, and some of the staff we grew up with are the reason we play nice. Don’t want dad’s wrath to be unleashed on them for something we did, if we can help it.”

Which makes sense. “Like my dad’s wrongdoing affected you,” Dean states.

“Bingo, bucko.”

“And you don’t think something significant happened between Nick and Mike the last time they saw each other, that would have made Mike flip his shit?”

Gabe narrows his eyes interestedly. “Like what?”

Dean makes a sturgeon face, feigning ignorance. “I dunno.”

“Something significant always went on between them one way or another. I don’t know how much you know about how close they were before, but they were practically one entity. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I came into a room one day to find that they had merged.”

“....Merged?” Dean asks dubiously.

“Wouldn’t put it past them.”

“ _Merged_?” Dean repeats with a raised eyebrow. “Like, how exactly?”

Gabe acts as if he doesn’t understand the question. Or the English language, for that matter, looking at Dean as if he suddenly started speaking gibberish. Which is answer enough for Dean.

“Huh. And you’d be okay with that?”

Gabe shrugs and jumps up on the desk, beside the plastic bag he brought. “They’re my brothers and I love them. I don’t care, as long as they get along. This feud is tearing me apart. I’m hoping tonight’s stunt will cause a reaction. _Any_ reaction, that will either get them talking again, or tell us why they’re not.”

When Nick comes back from the bathroom they’ve switched topic, and Dean’s telling Gabe what he misses the most about his last deployment―the food. He really appreciated the Afghan cuisine with its naan bread, stews, and sweets. “...meat stew they served with almost every meal. We called it goat knuckle stew. Sometimes it had these little bones in it, that were too tiny to come from anything with hooves. But we didn’t give a shit because it was so good. I’ll eat mystery meat every day, if it tastes like that.”

Nick jumps straight into the conversation. “I second that. That stew was great. Did you ever try the one they served in the officer’s mess in their camp? With fresh homegrown tomatoes and okra in it? Fuck, my mouth waters just thinking about it.”

Gabe, who’d been serious while Nick was out of the room, visibly puts on the clown mask again. “Oh, Luci, I brought you a wedding gift,” he chirps and takes a big box with a bow from his plastic bag. He holds it out. Nick takes it and Gabe goes on. “It’s a blender.”

“Why would we need a blender?” Nick asks, scrunching up his face.

“Nobody _needs_ a blender, big bro. It’s customary when you get married. You get blenders.”

Dean snatches the box from Nick. “I have use of a blender.”

“He cooks,” Nick states and starts oozing smugness.

“Hit the jackpot? Nice job,” Gabe quips with an exaggerated wink to Nick.

“If you make dessert, I’ll make dinner for ya sometime,” Dean offers. “But I’m warning ya, I ain’t as good as Nick will make me out to be.”

“Don’t listen to him. He…”

The lighter topics continue until it’s time to go. In the car, they go over the plan one last time, and Nick goes back to being a pissbaby because he’s nervous.

* * *


	60. Castiel

* * *

# Castiel

3 years, 3 months (2 years, 6 months)

Getting into the hosting family’s estate is no problem, and once inside they tuck away their press badges. Everyone's wearing masks unless they're staff or press. They're fancy contraptions with feathers and jewellery that covers the top half of the face. Gabe has stashed masks for them inside. Nick’s black, and Dean’s peafowl green. Gabe vanishes as soon as they’re inside. 

In two hours everyone will take their masks off. They split up to get a good feel of the layout of the building and to locate Mike and Marlon. The center of the building is, of course, a giant ballroom, with balconies that overlooks it on each floor. The canapés that are served look delicious, and Dean’s tempted to stuff his face. He refrains in order to blend in. Instead he snags a glass of champagne from one of the trays servers carry around, and schmoozes around like he isn’t blown away by the luxury of the surroundings and jewellery that bedecks the women. He's glad he's wearing the watch Mike gave him, as it's up to par with what the other men here are wearing. 

He’s never felt more like James Bond in his life. 

He tries to avoid talking to people by pretending to be intent on his way to speak with someone further away. It’s easier said than done, in a room full of people who excels at networking. Any time he gets roped into a conversation he diverts attention to the speaker and pretends to have opinions on subjects he knows nothing about. Still, it goes well. He’s good at adapting to the company and makes use of his limited knowledge of polo, as well as any information given to him by a previous speaker. Gossip is a hot commodity here, just like everywhere else.

He’s yet to find Mike. Nick comes into view now and then, talking to people. Their eyes will meet in a fleeting confirmation that all is well. 

Dean goes to search for a toilet, and finds that no matter how fancy a get together is, there's always a queue to the toilets. Instead of waiting in line, he walks up the stairs. He skips the first floor altogether, figuring that if people have the same idea as him, they'll be lazy. Instead he chooses the third, and highest floor straight away. 

He finds an empty bathroom, all marble and gold, relieves himself, and goes to the balcony to observe the people below. 

“Enchanté, monsieur,” comes a gravelly voice from behind. 

“Cas.” Dean turns around to find the youngest of the brothers standing there wearing a magnificent midnight blue mask. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas confirms, lips quirking in a sardonic little smile. 

“I didn’t know you were gonna be here,” Dean tells him, not bothering to talk ‘properly’.

“I’m here incognito. Gabe refrained from telling you? I'm not surprised. I was instructed not to speak with you.”

“Really?”

“Mh. Rather, I was told not to say anything witty, observant, or clever. Which equals silence.”

Dean chuckles. “Why?”

“There seems to be a common fear that I will, for lack of a better word, _steal_ you away from Luci. A ridiculous notion. I respect the yearnings of all my brothers' hearts. I would not stand in the way of love, once my brothers’ found it.” Cas sips his champagne and studies Dean. He’s very different from the rest of the brood―a facade, if Nick and Mike are to be believed. 

“Yeah, no worries. Ain’t gonna elope with my husband's brother.”

“I’m not so sure of that. You do have a track record, after all,” Cas states dryly.

“Nick told you about Mike and me?”

“No. Anna did. My sisters have always harboured the illusion that they can tell me anything. She was very distressed about your knowledge of her sordid affair. How did you come to know about it?”

“She told me. I just play a good guessing game and she has no poker face.”

Cas hums in a very Nick-like manner.

“Hey, so in my defense,” Dean prompts, feeling the need to protect his reputation. “Me and Nicky didn’t do anything until after I read about Mike’s engagement in a fucking gossip magazine. And the first thing I did when Nick and I hooked up, was to tell Mike. Not that he believed me. That’s not the point. I didn’t cheat on him until I found out he’d had a relationship with someone else for eight months. That he’d gotten _engaged_ behind my back. We’d been living together for years, for fuck sake. I don’t deserve to be treated like that.”

Cas comes up to stand beside him by the railing. “No. It’s very unlike Michael to behave that way. He hasn’t been acting like himself since Lucifer’s disownment. Tell me, Dean, are you only with Luci to get back at Michael?” Cas tilts his head curiously, and Dean can see him squint behind the mask.

“Dude, no. I’m head over heels in love with him.”

“So why didn’t you break it off with Michael when you stopped loving him?”

“Who says I stopped?” Dean answers and sips his champagne. It’s his third glass so far.

Cas hums again. From what Dean can gather, he’s being meticulously scrutinised. It’s hard to tell, with the masks. “I’m saddened to hear about your mistreatment, Dean. But Michael’s behaviour is very uncharacteristic. I’m of a belief that there are sinister, unseen forces at work. I think you and Lucifer are on your way of making a grievous mistake. I advise you to not to go through with your plan for the evening. Or at the very least I urge you to postpone your plans until you’ve figured out why Michael is behaving the way he is.”

“Yeah, no. Sorry, Cas. It’s happening.”

“I thought it would. I felt obliged to offer my advice, but I learned long ago, not to put my fingers between, when Mikey and Luci clash. I’m here to observe. Events of this magnitude are better observed than left to witness recounts. In the meantime, may I offer my expertise on how you can stir up your audience for tonight? They’ll be grateful for the show, and much more likely to focus on it, if you conduct yourself as per my recommendation.”

“I ain’t gonna turn down help. Shoot.”

Cas utters a dark chuckle that curls pleasantly around Dean’s spine. He may not buy into the bullcrap of him and Cas running off together, but damn, the guy _does_ have a sexy voice. 

“Very well.” Cas points at a lady in a green dress below in the ballroom. “That’s Mrs. Blanchett. She has an illegitimate child named Theodore, with a rapper called T-Bone. She’s hidden Theo’s existence from both her husband and the media for the greater part of ten years. Over there you have Roderick McFarlan. He hired a man to break into…” Cas points out person upon person, naming their secrets. He tells Dean to go mingle, and to spread the gossip about all these people, and points out some specific individuals that will make sure gossip will reach their targets, so by the time Dean and Nick makes their reveal, everyone will be prone to play up the outrage, in hopes of getting the spotlight off of themselves. Cas may seem proper and quiet in his demeanor, but the guy holds a fuckton of intel, and seems to be as entertained by chaos as Gabe is. He’s a silent watcher from the shadows. Appearing as harmless as a black kitten, while he’s really a black panther in wait of his prey. Dean respects him for it. 

Dean bids him goodbye and follows his instructions. The evening is turning out to be quite exhilarating.

* * *


	61. Showtime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** The tags for misogyny and sexism comes strongly into play here.
> 
> **Notes:**  
>  As Chuck doesn't fit the character of the Williams patriarch, I created Marlon, an OC more in line for the man who shaped the boys. I had some fun morphing to get an idea of what he might look like, and [here's the result](http://impalajunktrunk.tumblr.com/post/156237482671/marlon-williams-at-age-27-45-and-60-i-realise).

* * *

# Showtime

3 years, 3 months (2 years, 6 months)

“Cas is _here_?” Nick asks in bafflement when they reunite and Dean tells him.

“Yeah. He’s here incognito. He told us not to go through with this.”

Nick sputters. “Oh, that little shit. If he thinks that he can tell me what I may and may not do, then he can fuck off. If I want to waltz up to dad with a Winchester on my arm, then I damn well going to! _Nobody_ gets to forbid me to do anything. Not dad, and definitely not my little brother!”

Dean laughs and holds his hands up placatingly. “Hey, hey, chill, will ya? He ain’t gonna stop us. He advised against it, and when I said we’re doing it he gave me some help.”

Nick doesn’t look convinced. He narrows his eyes, crosses one arm over his chest, rests his other elbow on it and pulls at his upper lip. “He…helped?” His voice tells Dean he doesn’t believe it for a minute.

“Yeah. He pointed out a bunch of people and gave me good intel on them. Prime gossip. Then he showed me who I should tell to stir the pot.”

“Ah. I can believe that. I wouldn’t call it helping us, as much as selling life jackets on the Titanic.”

“What do ya mean?”

“I love my brother, but he is a scheming little bitch, okay? I don’t doubt whatever _help_ he gave you, benefitted you. But considering that Cas at the moment, officially and with several witnesses, is at a vernissage in Paris with Balt, I believe he just wanted that gossip spread without any connection to him.”

“If he’s in Paris, he can’t be here.”

Nick snaps his fingers. “Exactly.”

“I’m sure I talked to Cas, Nick,” Dean says, needing to convince himself as he feels a tendril of uncertainty.

“Of course you did. As far as I know, Cas has two body doubles that work for him. One of which has an extremely heavy French accent when speaking English, and one who only speaks Portuguese. That doesn’t sound like the guy you talked to, right?”

Dean shakes his head. “Jeezus, Nick. Sometimes your family makes me feel like I’ve been dropped into some kind of spy flick.”

Nick drops his arms and smiles, eyes sparkling under the shadows of the mask. He hooks his hands around Dean’s neck, thumbs rubbing affectionately at the base of his skull. “They’re your family too now, darling.”

Dean can’t help smiling back, getting all warm and gooey in the middle. “Yeah, alright.”

“Now come on. I’ve found dad. Let’s get into position before the unmasking.”

* * *

The unmasking is, according to Nick, a tradition in the spirit of Cinderella, proving that even rich people are nerds. But what the hell, anything to liven up a party, right?

Dean had expected Marlon Williams to be an ugly man. In hindsight, he couldn’t say why, considering he found all Marlon’s sons attractive in one way or another. He also hadn’t expected all his sons to look like him. They all looked so vastly different, that there was no way in hell you wouldn’t suspect that at least one pool boy had a finger in the making of the Williams boys. But no. When Nick points Marlon out after the unmasking, Dean can see a likeness to every single one of his sons. Even Gabe, surprisingly. He refrains from calling Marlon hot, but it’s a close call. 

“Plastic surgery, right? He looks way younger than he should.”

“Indeed,” Nick agrees. They’re standing partly hidden by a marble pillar, keeping an eye on Marlon, waiting for Mike and his fiancé to make their way over to him. “My father is a very vain man.”

Marlon is tall. As tall as Nick, with a proud posture. His eyes are a piercing blue, with the sharp gaze of an eagle. He’s got the broad shoulders of a man who works out, and has acquired some comfort padding around the torso. He’s got brown hair, greying at the temples, and while he’s not as wrinkled as a man past sixty should be, he hasn’t overdone the plastic surgery in an attempt to wipe out age completely like many do. He’s got a high forehead and his temples are creeping upward as age has receded his hairline. His features are strong and his movements graceful and calculated. “He works out, right?”

“Boxing, mostly. And running in the mornings. Unless he’s changed his routines since I moved out.”

 

“Boxing, huh. Ya think he’ll try to knock me out?”

“In front of an audience? Hell no. He’s a lot of things, darling, but impulsive isn’t one of them. He won’t squeeze until he’s got you by the balls. And you won’t notice that he’s put his hand there until he begins squeezing. Metaphorically.”

“Hey, look. There’s Mike and the cunt.”

“Whelp. Guess it’s showtime.”

* * *

“Dad! You don’t mind if I call you dad, do ya? ‘Course you don’t. I’m married to yer son. You practically _are_ my dad. Gimme that paw. Nah, who am I kiddin’? You should have a good ol’ hug.” People around them quiet down to watch when Dean, with a big, open grin, first snatches Marlon’s hand to shake, then pulls him in for a backslapping hug. Dean changes his mind about the comfort padding. Marlon is hard all over. He’s got the same type of body as Nick―barrel-like around the middle, not wiry like Mike. “So nice to finally meet you, pops. Mike kept telling me you didn’t have time.”

“Did he now...?” Marlon responds when Dean lets go. This far his only reaction to Dean’s attack was a slight widening of the eyes at the initial approach. Now he’s smiling a small close-lipped smile, eyes sharp and narrowed. He reminds Dean of a snake slowly coiling up to strike. “I’m afraid I don’t know who you are, Mr….?”

“Williams. Dean,” Dean answers with a big, friendly grin as if he can’t sense the hostility coming from the older man in waves. “It’s Winchester Williams, actually. I believe you did business with my old man back in the days, if you remember?”

He can hear a sharp intake of breath to his right, where Mike is standing six feet to his side, slightly behind him and out of his immediate line of sight. There’s some tittering and murmuring from the crowd, but most people are quiet and intent on the spectacle offered to them. It’s a testament of how powerful Marlon Williams is considered to be, that the hush has spread through the whole hall, despite the fact that most people won’t be able to see shit.

Marlon’s nostrils flare, and the muscle around his eyes tenses, at the mention of Winchester. His gaze turns coldly hateful, yet his smile never falters. “I remember John Winchester _quite_ clearly, indeed. By the look of you…” he raises a hand slowly, crooks his index finger and touches the underside of Dean’s chin with it, dragging it in a caress-like manner towards the tip of the chin, forcing Dean’s head to tilt upward slightly. “...you must be the oldest of his two sons. I’m _so_ sorry to hear about your mother’s demise. I believe you were in the car when it happened. It must have been an _awful_ experience to witness firsthand,” he says and strokes his thumb mock-affectionately along Dean’s jawline. His voice is pleasant, but his intonation and gaze makes it feel like a threat. (Dean holds no illusions that it isn’t.) His touch would under normal circumstances make Dean recoil like a hissing cat, feeling both intimidated and unsettled. But Dean’s in his battle mindspace. This isn’t a physical fight, but the mental state is the same. It’s what earned him the reputation of being tenacious and brave. (Some people might just call it stupidity.)

Gabe had said that Dean would understand why Nick was nervous, once he met Marlon. He does understand. Mike could amp up presence, and become a dominant, leading force when he wanted to. Like when he’d spotted the moss rosebud Nick had given Dean. Nick too had a presence that unfolded when he was angry or intent on seduction. It’s like their auras unfolded to fill up the surrounding. Marlon however, was swathed in it, like it never retracted into a resting state. His movements are all elegant, calculated, and pleasant. He radiates power and superiority.

Instead of recoiling like he’s sure Marlon wants him to, Dean turns his head into the touch and places a kiss on Marlon’s palm, happy to note Marlon’s face twitch in startled disgust. It’s discreet, but Dean sees it, and Marlon lowers his hand unrushedly. Dean tilts his head and smiles ruefully. “Yeah… not my best day. But what can you do, huh? Win some, lose some. I heard your wife went belly up too. Shoulda been more careful. Popping out offspring is taxing for chicks. Don’t worry, papa. You’ll find a new pussy to bang soon enough.” He claps Marlon on the shoulder in a show of camaraderie. As far as he knows, the only person Marlon ever truly loved, was his late wife.

Marlon smiles widely, showing off his perfect teeth. Pink roses blossom on his cheeks and his eyes widen in disbelief. You can almost believe it’s a friendly smile, not an angry baring of fangs. “I'm sure I will, should I want to. So, _Dean_ ,” the way he says Dean’s name, he makes it sound like something disgusting. “You claim to be married to Michael?”

“Oh, no. I’m married to one of your other sons. Nick.” Dean keeps up the upbeat airhead act. As if all these little cues of hostility passes him right by. He’s itching to turn his head to look at Mike, but doesn’t.

“I’m I afraid I have no son by that name,” Marlon says smoothly.

“Eeey. Nice try, pops,” Dean says with a cheeky grin and half turns his body to elbow Marlon in the ribs conspiratorially. “You can sell a pedigree without the papers, but it’s still a pedigree, you know what I mean? It’s in the DNA.”

Marlon grunts at the unexpected jab in the ribs. Still, his lips quirk up in another small smile, eyelids lowering, becoming heavy like Nick’s. “Ah. Nicholas. How _could_ I forget,” he says dryly, using a tone that would make you wonder if he was being sarcastic or not.

“Hi, dad,” Nick says from behind Dean. Dean throws a look over his shoulder to see Nick stand a bit further away, one hand in his dress pant pocket, and the other hand holding a glass of champagne. His eyes are shining with badly held back mirth. He’s definitely enjoying the show. As he should be, as a reporter from Gold Crusted is standing not far away from him, taking pictures a mile a minute, recorder hanging on a strap around his neck.

“Lucifer. Such a nice surprise.”

The crowd stirs, murmuring. Dean keeps his voice loud and carrying, while Marlon uses a lower tone, meant for privacy. Dean notes with some satisfaction that the balconies have filled up with people that had been standing too far back to see anything. Dean turns his attention back to Marlon, who’s got his icy blue gaze locked on Nick, oozing tightly concealed anger, cold and coiling, just like Nick’s is when it rises. “It is, isn’t it?” Dean says, drawing Marlon’s attention back. “But don’t get me wrong, daddy, I was en route to marry Mike. We lived together as lovers for three years. But then you had to go and order him to get a breeder.” Dean tuts regretfully and gives Marlon a disappointed look. He thinks he hears Mike whisper ‘ _Dean, don’t_ ’ under his breath, but he’s not sure. “You broke my heart, papa. Really. Couldn’t you have let your son choose for himself and be happy?” He pauses to give Marlon a reproachful, sad look. Marlon’s nostrils flare and his gaze snaps to Mike. His lips are compressed in a tight smile, but his anger is starting to crack through the calm now.

“Where is the cunt anyway?” Dean asks, chipper again. He turns around, facing Mike and his fiancé for the first time this evening. Lady Toni Bevell looks outraged and Mike’s pale, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and desperate, looking like his world is falling apart and he’s helpless to stop it. 

_Good_.

“Ah, there it is, the British cow!” Dean exclaims with a wide gesture towards Bevell. He stalks up to her with a wide grin. “You preggers yet? No? Not the greatest of choice for a brood mare. I mean, come _on_. It’s the hips that are supposed to be wide for childbirth, not the _thighs_.” There are scattered laughter in the room, because people are assholes. Not that Dean gives a shit. If he could have his wish, he’d put a bullet between her eyes. “On the bright side, German world war two riding pants will fit you perfectly,” he quips with a shit eating grin.

Bevell is enraged. “I have never―! The _insolence_! Michael!” She turns her head to look demandingly at Mike, tugging his arm for him to do something, to defend her. 

Mike just stands there, deflated, as if somebody cut his strings. He looks at Dean with infinite sadness.

“ _Michael_!” Bevell repeats, staring in shock at her fiancé when she understands that he’s not going to help her. “I will not forget about this!” she declares towards Dean, and Mike, then Marlon. “You’ll pay for this!” She takes the ring of her finger and throws it on the ground, turns around, and stalks away. The crowd parts to let her go, murmuring loudly amongst themselves.

“Dean, please,” Mike begs so quietly that only Dean can hear. 

Dean ignores him, feigning surprise. “What? She wasn’t informed that that was the purpose of the engagement?” He hooks an arm around Mike’s neck and turns towards Marlon again. He can see Nick hiding a grin behind his glass, withholding laughter. “No surprise there, I suppose. Mike wasn’t exactly forthcoming with me either, pops,” he says, addressing Marlon. “I had to go read about his eight months long infidelity in Gold Crusted―excellent journalism, by the way,” he adds as a sidenote and winks at the reporter.

Marlon smiles, indulgently now. “Lucky it all worked out then. Tell me, Dean, where did you and Lucifer meet?”

“Why, at Mike’s penthouse of course,” Dean answers frankly. Mike sucks in a horrified breath, turning stiff at his side. “Where else? You know how close they are. Nick went straight to Mike’s after he left the army.”

Marlon’s gaze turns to Mike, sharp and keen.

“What have you done?” Mike peeps in anguish, barely audibly.

Dean turns his head to look at him. Mike is pale as a sheet, looking utterly _shattered_ , maybe even afraid. There’s black, vitriolic goo pumping in Dean’s bloodstream now. Mike fucking _deserves_ this. This is what revenge tastes like. “What? You didn’t expect me to lie, didja? I ain’t too fond of lies, Mike, you know that. After all, if you’d just been honest, none of this woulda happened.”

“It’s been nice seeing you again, father, but sadly, Dean and I have to go,” Nick interjects.

“Oh dear. So soon? What a shame. Things were just starting to get interesting,” Marlon answers with faked regret.

Dean lets go of Mike and stalks up to Marlon, smiling widely again. “Nice meeting ya, papa. We should do this again sometime. Thanksgiving, perhaps?”

Marlon opens his mouth to answer, but Dean, remembering Marlon’s disgust earlier, dives in, too quickly for Marlon to react, and plants a wet kiss right on his lips. Then he skips away with an impish wink at the senior Williams. It coaxes out the biggest emotional response out of the man by far, as he dries his lips with the back of his sleeve, looking both distressed and horrified.

“See ya!” Dean calls behind him, grabs Nick’s hand and saunters towards the exit. The crowd part for them and the murmurs rise to an almost deafening chatter in their wake. They make it outside before they bend over laughing, stumbling down the wide staircase. Some people follow them out to watch them go. 

Dean’s riding high on an adrenaline rush. Fucking soaring. Things had gone so smoothly, even better than anticipated.

Their car pulls up in front of them. Dean doesn’t even have time to wonder how it could arrive so quickly before Gabe jumps out of the driver’s seat, clad in a chauffeur outfit. He opens the door to the back seat for them, they pile in, he closes the door, goes around, and drives off. 

“Holy shit! I'm fucking high!” Dean exclaims.

“Did you see it?” Nick asks, leaning forward to the front seats, grinning at Gabe.

“That was _awesome!_ ” Dean states, exhilarated by their success.

“Did you see any of that, Gabe?” Nick repeats.

“Didja see his face?” Dean asks both of them, thinking of the distress on Marlon’s face after the kiss.

They talk over each other, still chortling. 

“I saw it. Front row ticket.” Gabe looks at them in the rearview mirror with an excited grin. 

“Where were you?” Nick wonders, squeezing Dean’s hand.

“I was standing to the right side of dad,” Gabe informs them.

“Bullshit!” Nick challenges.

Dean wracks his brain. He has no memory of seeing Gabe. But… “Oh fuck! The _server!_ ”

“Bingo, bucko. Nobody looks at the staff,” Gabe confirms.

Nick slaps a hand to his forehead and groans. 

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up, big bro. I’ve pulled that on you guys plenty of times. I’m a master of disguises.” Gabe looks very self-satisfied as he looks at them through the rear mirror.

“How’d ya get the car so fast?” Dean wonders. 

“Staff entrance. Went straight to the garage. Better skedaddle before they decided they want to book us for something.”

“Yeah. Why the hell didn’t anyone call security on me?” Dean asks. He’d anticipated that. They had worked out what to do when it happened. Then― _nothing_. 

“They almost did when you went after lady Bevell, but dad made a hand gesture for the security to stand down while your back was still turned. That's why her anger was directed at him too,” Gabe explains.

“Really? Why would he do that?”

“Maybe he wanted to hear what you had to say?” Gabe speculates.

Dean laughs and shakes his head in bafflement. The goal had been to humiliate and rattle, and they had succeeded. It was a big finger in Marlon’s face, and Mike had gotten all his lies coming back to bite him in the ass.

“I gotta confess, I had _not_ thought Mike would just stand there and take it. I thought he would deny it, call me a liar, or at least get angry.”

“That was a bit unexpected,” Nick agrees.

“Weren’t you supposed to talk a bit too, big bro?” Gabe asks Nick.

“I was, but I didn't have to. Dean did so well without me, I opted to just enjoy the show.”

“Indeed. Dean, you’re quite a performer. That was one hell of a show. And I saw you mingle, speaking as eloquently as the rest of the bunch earlier. The contrast between that, and the hillbilly you played for dad was astounding. You seemed totally oblivious to dad's rage,” Gabe reviews.

“You could shine a light in one ear and it would come out the other,” Nick agrees.

“Weren’t you scared?” Gabe quizzes.

“Dude. He was staring daggers, not _throwing_ them.” Sure, Marlon had a commanding presence and a sinister, predatory gaze. But he’s just a man for fuck sake. It makes more sense for his sons to be scared of him, since they’d grown up under his tyranny.

“Balls of steel, my friend, balls of steel.”

“Hear ye, hear ye,” Nick agrees.

Dean's phone vibrates a couple of times. He picks it up and looks at the notifications. “Mike’s texted me.”

“Delete them,” Nick demands, smile dissipating.

“Without reading?”

“Yes. If he wants to talk to us, he can come find us.”

Nick’s tone brooked no argument, so Dean obliges, deleting the texts unread. “Did you guys see Marlon’s face when I kissed him? The homophobia is strong in that one, I’ll tell ya. And is he a closet case? For a moment there I swear he reciprocated…”

“ _Eewww_! Fuck, darling, don’t say shit like that!” Nick protests, face scrunching up in utter disgust.

Gabe cackles from the driver’s seat. “I don’t know, Luci, he could be. Who knows? We’re all attracted to guys in some degree. Maybe it’s genetic? Maybe dad has the hots for your husband,” he teases, wiggling his eyebrows.

Nick kicks the back of his seat. “Shut up, dickbag!”

“Seems legit,” Dean agrees just to taunt Nick. “And he is kinda hot. Real fucking masculine. And, _damn_ , those alpha vibes. Kinda felt like getting on all fours and just _present_ , if you know what I mean?” It’s hard saying it with a straight face, and he doesn’t quite manage to keep his lips from twitching.

“For the love of―!” Nick socks him hard on the arm, cracking up both Gabe and Dean. Then Nick lunges to the side, hooking Dean’s neck and knuckling his head. Dean’s laughing so hard it’s difficult to struggle loose. It doesn’t help that Nick keeps scolding him. “ _Don’t_ , talk like that, about my, fucking father!”

“Why not?” Dean manages to choke out, grinning like a loon. “He’s a real silver ba―”

Nick makes an indignant sound and cuts him off with a punch in the gut. It’s on the right side of playful, and only makes Dean laugh harder.

Gabe keeps sniggering as he drives the wrestling pair back to the motel.

* * *


	62. Cas' Concerns

* * *

# Cas’ Concerns

3 years, 3 months (2 years, 6 months)

They say that the taste of revenge is bitter and that it won’t make you feel better. But what the fuck do ‘they’ know anyway?

Dean feels awesome. It’s like a weight has lifted from his shoulders. Justice has been served. He’s closed the book on Mike. Kinda. He ain’t feeling guilty, that’s for damned sure. Though sometimes, he misses him, even if he shouldn’t. He’s happy. He’s damned happy. All that’s left to do now is gloat at the result when the gossip mags come out, and to return Cayenne. Then life will start anew.

Hell, he feels so damned good about everything, that his urge to drink and do drugs has diminished considerably. There’s no need to get blackout drunk to forget about current heart aches. Sam and Mike still rest in the dark recesses of his mind, but he’s mostly at peace.

It doesn’t mean he goes through his days sober. Nu-uh. If he remains completely sober for more than 24 hours, his body starts acting up. He gets the shakes. It’s inevitable. But he’s got no inclination to go dry, so it's not a problem. 

It’s been a week. Gabe’s stuck around, renting an apartment that they all currently live in. It’s a simple but comfortable, furnished three bedroom apartment, with a decent sized kitchen and living room. 

Nick’s said that he was close with all his brothers, and Dean’s thrilled to find out what that entails. 

For starters, there's bickering, teasing, and banter. Gabe knows how to push Nick’s buttons and approaches it like a kid smashing buttons on a toy, trying to make it do all the sounds at once. There’s a great load of affection between them and they’re a lot more physical than most adult siblings Dean’s known, but it’s not in a way that triggers his fucked-up-O-meter (like Nick and Mike did). Both Gabe and Nick de-age in each other's company, at times acting like complete asshats.

Gabe works during the days, so Dean and Nick are stuck loitering or doing domestic tasks like washing, cleaning, and grocery shopping. While Dean enjoys the domestic parts, he’s already starting to feel the restlessness that comes with not having a  
Purpose™.

A thing all three of them enjoy about sharing a home is the food. Dean happily cooks, Gabe makes desserts and cookies, and Nick… well. Let’s just say that he’s _very_ content with the arrangement even if it means he's stuck doing the dishes. 

“...using cardamom. But I found that if I changed it to chili flakes and cinnamon, the result is much better.”

Gabe nods. “Interesting. I haven’t tried it. I'll do that the next time.” He’s leaned against the workbench while Dean heats up a big pot to make popcorn in. Gabe’s eating candy like he has no bottom. Ever so often he goes to throw the wrappers in the bin.

They hear the front door opening and Nick coming in from his beer run.

Gabe unwraps another candy, but this time flicks the wrapper to the floor, giving Dean a wink.

Nick comes into the kitchen, gives Dean a kiss hello, puts the beer in the fridge, then spots the wrapper on the floor. “For the love of―!” he sputters. “How many times do I have to tell you not to throw trash on the floor, Gabe?” he scolds as he picks it up. “I can’t believe you’re over thirty. How the hell do you manage to live on your own?” he grumbles and throws the wrapper in the trashcan with a glare at Gabe.

Dean withholds a snigger. Nick’s just as bad as Gabe. Like he’ll always put his shoes neatly beside the door. Until now, when they somehow will be kicked off haphazardly in places where Gabe is guaranteed to trip over them. 

“Sorry, it must have fallen out of my pocket,” Gabe answers cheekily and gets a skeptical glare from Nick.

“Isn’t it today the newest issues of the magazines are supposed to come out?” Dean asks.

“It is. I’m having them delivered,” Gabe confirms.

Dean has never been so excited about reading gossip magazines in his life.

* * *

They’re watching some action flick on Netflix, sharing a huge bowl of popcorn between them when the doorbell rings.

“It’s probably the magazines arriving…” Gabe says from his place in the armchair.

“Somebody should get that,” Nick prompts beside Dean in the three-seat couch and stuffs a handful of popcorn in his mouth. Neither of them makes a move to get up.

“Don’t mind me,” Dean mutters and gets up when the doorbell rings a second time.

He hears the brothers snigger at his back when he leaves the room. 

_Lazy bastards._

He opens the door to find… “Cas!”

“Hello, Dean.” Cas lips quirk up that sardonic little smile Dean’s come to associate with him. He makes quite a sight. The ugliest trenchcoat to ever coat, hanging open over a perfectly tailored navy suit. He’s carrying a huge, worn out overnight bag.

“What are you doing here? I mean, welcome in,” Dean greets with a surprised smile and sidesteps to allow Cas to come inside and drop his bag on the floor. 

Cas tilts his head, lips quirking up slightly in an amused smile. “Thank you. I'd like to greet you with a hug, but I fear it would be wasted out of Luci’s sight,” Cas says, then toes his shoes off. 

“Dude. A hug is never wasted,” Dean decides and pulls him into a hug that Cas reciprocates with a low chuckle. 

“Who is it?” Nick calls from the living room. 

“Shut up! I'm macking on my brother in law. You’re ruining it,” Dean calls back, getting another low rumble from Cas. 

Nick appears around the corner just as Dean and Cas separate. “Cassie!” he exclaims in delight, takes two giant strides and sweeps Cas off his feet with a bone crushing hug. Cas laughs, hugging back. “It’s been too long, little brother,” Nick chides. “Dean told me you were at the ball. I should kick your ass for not coming to say hello.”

“It would have exposed us both, as you're well aware.”

Dean thinks he’s probably right, if they'd engaged in a prolonged hug like this. It was bound to draw attention. “Can I take your coat, Cas?” he offers politely. 

“Pfft. He can do that himself, darling. He’s not some fancy-ass guest,” Nick mutters when he puts Cas down.

“Says you. I think his ass is mighty fancy,” Dean teases, getting a narrow-eyed glare from Nick, and takes the coat from Cas when he shrugs out of it. 

Cas smirks. “Thank you, Dean,” then to Nick, “It’s called manners, Luci. Maybe you'll learn some one day.”

Nick scoffs. 

“I'm only trying to rid him of the ugly fucking thing he's wearing,” Dean stage whispers to Nick who sniggers. 

Cas smiles. “I concur, it’s not the most fashionable item, but it serves its assigned purposes.”

“And what’s that? It ain’t looking too warm, to be honest,” Dean probes while Nick squats by Cas’ bag, opening it.

Cas hums. “It’s not. But it’s memorable. It comes in handy when I want people to remember that I was present.”

“Is it true that you have two body doubles?” Dean needs to satisfy his curiosity on that.

“Quite. Jimmy and Emanuel. Upon scrutiny, they’re not as alike me as I could wish. But people seldom truly look.”

“But _why_ have you got them?”

“Because I can afford to. I let them be present at boring events I'm acquired to attend.”

“So there’s no, um, spy-like reason?” Dean quizzes.

Cas laughs and gives Dean an amused, gummy grin. “Lord, no.”

“He says that,” Nick interjects and looks up from where he's rummaging in Cas’ bag, “but then this.” He holds up an opened newspaper, tapping his finger against a small article. The headline reads ‘McDowells sells Conix Inc after rumours of insider affairs’.

Dean remembers that rumour. He’d helped to spread it.

“I don’t know what you're talking about,” Cas denies, feigning innocent. 

“You did buy the company, did you not?” Nick insists. 

A small smile quirks Castiel’s lips. “Perhaps…” he admits. 

“See? I told you he wasn’t actually helping us,” Nick tells Dean. 

“Of course not. Your little display was tasteless and possibly undeserved. I did enjoy seeing father put on the spot, but Mikey should have been spared. I told you, something about his behaviour lately has been disconcerting and out of character.”

“So why didn't you warn him, or try to stop us?” Dean asks. Nick snorts in derision and Cas throws his big brother a dry look.

“I've warned him plenty of times that turning his back on a brother would have unfortunate consequences. As for stopping you, I know better than to try,” he explains, giving Nick a pointed look at the last sentence.

“You guys coming with the mags or not?” Gabe calls from the other room. 

“You come get them yourself, you lazy shit,” Nick calls back, standing up and shouldering Cas’ bag.

Cas chuckles. “Or we might join him in there, if you don’t mind. I’d rather sit comfortably, than stand here all evening.”

“Sure,” Dean says. “I’ll go get you a beer.”

* * *

Dean had thought this would only be featured in Gold Crusted. He’d been wrong. (And come to think of it, there’d been several reporters present.) Cas has brought eleven different weekly gossip magazines, where Gold Crusted is the only one that really tried to depict what happened through a truthful, objective perspective. They’ve got a six-page article, with mostly pictures. But at least they got the quotes right, which is more than can be said of many of the others. 

One magazine focuses solely on the insults directed at Lady Bevell. The article holds a lot of words like ‘misogyny’, ‘sexism’, ‘male chauvinist pig’, ‘body shaming’, but also ‘feminism’, and ‘body positivity’. Which, yeah, Dean gets their point. But as he leafs through the rest of the magazine he finds several articles titled things like ‘How to make him like you’, ‘How to lose weight in 30 days’, and, ironically enough, ‘How to get rid of those saddlebags’. Dean rolls his eyes and throws the magazine over the backrest behind him, gagging at the hypocrisy.

Then there are two magazines; ‘Extra!’, and ‘Gossip!’ that basically made up their own stories based on pictures taken. ‘Extra!’ is Dean’s new favourite. He and Marlon made the cover, and Dean can’t stop giggling at the headline. ‘ **IS MARLON WILLIAMS GAY?** ’

“Seriously, guys. I might have to frame this and hang it on the wall somewhere,” Dean says and flips the cover so Gabe can see. 

Gabe looks up from the article he’s been reading, chokes on spittle and bursts out laughing.

The cover photo is excellently timed. It’s taken the exact moment when Dean kisses Marlon, just before the man had registered what happened. Marlon had had his mouth slightly parted to speak, so their mouth had slotted together perfectly. His eyelids are half lowered, and it _looks_ like he’s not only reciprocating, but _enjoying it_. Had the camera shutters gone off half a beat later, it would have caught utterly horrified distress on Marlon’s face. They say a picture says more than a thousand words - in this case, they’re all _lies_.

“Let me see,” Nick demands and snatches the mag out of his hands. As soon as he sees the picture his face scrunches up in disgust. He covers his mouth with a hand, muffling a “ _Ew_ , fuck!”

Both Cas and Gabe laughs at him.

“This isn’t funny, okay? This is gross. That’s a real fucking kiss. You fucking kissed my dad, and he kissed you back. This is―”

“He _didn’t_ kiss back, you dolt. That’s taken before he knew what hit him. He was opening his mouth to speak,” Dean explains, sniggering. “You’re an idiot, and your dad isn’t gay for me, okay?”

“You afraid Dean will think dad kisses better than you?” Gabe teases. 

Nick gives him a murderous stare. 

Dean snatches the mag back and finds the article. “This _is_ funny, Nicky. Pure fiction. Listen to this. ‘The handsome stranger came to declare that he could no longer live with being kept a secret. He wanted to say goodbye, and shared a last passionate kiss with his assumed longtime lover…’ Whoever comes up with this kind of crap?” Dean chuckles, shaking his head. The mag then goes flying over the backrest to join the feminist/how-to-please-your-man mag on the floor.

Once they’ve read through everything, gloating and making fun of every article, they settle in to continue watching the movie. Cas, who’s been relatively quiet during the reading session (apart from laughing along at teasing and delivering the odd quip or jab) speaks up before they hit play. “I’d like to raise some concerns about Michael. I’m aware you believe he deserved what he got, and may not prioritise his well-being at this particular moment. But I’m apprehensive, and I’d like for you all to make dire note of it.”

“Oh? What did he say?” Nick asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“Nothing. I’ve been unable to locate him since the event took place. That’s why I’m concerned.”

Gabe waves his hand dismissively. “Bah. He’s probably just holed up in some beach hotel somewhere, licking his wounds and being comforted by models. He’ll get over it. Start the movie.”

Dean, who’s holding the remote, moves to oblige, but Nick’s hand shoots out to stop him, eyes still on Cas.

“What do you mean, unable to locate him?” Nick asks, gaze sharp now.

“He’s disappeared. Any calls go straight to voicemail, emails remain unanswered, he hasn’t been to work, nobody at home has seen him, none of his credit cards have been used, and neither has his passport. I find it all _quite_ distressing.”

“You know Mikey, Cas. To him, cash is king. If there ever was a time when he’d want to be incognito for a while, it’d be now,” Gabe argues. “Isn’t that right, Luci?”

Nick hums uncertainly. “Indeed. He’s big on cash,” But he doesn’t sound convinced, and there’s a troubled frown on his forehead.

“So what do you suggest we do about it?” Dean asks, managing to sound neutral. He has no idea how to feel about this.

“For now, nothing,” Cas answers. “He might very well be in hiding. I’m not certain. As Gabe pointed out, Michael has always kept a lot of cash on his person. If he resurfaces in a week or two, you can disregard this observation, or tease me for it, if you so choose. It just felt important to me that you were all aware of my misgivings.” His eyes are earnest and anxious, yet there’s no accusation in them when he looks at Dean. 

“Duly noted. Can we watch the movie now?” Gabe prompts. 

Nick scrutinizes Cas for a little longer, with that troubled wrinkle between his eyes, then he nods and looks away. “Yes. Hit it,” he commands.

Later though, when they’re lying curled up together in bed in their room, just as they’re drifting off to sleep, Nick mumbles “‘Ts possible tha’ he jsst went home t’ hs pnthouse,” voice slurred by fatigue.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees sleepily.

“Likely even,” Nick adds.

“Most likely,” Dean confirms.

For a moment there’s just Nick’s heavy breathing tickling Dean’s neck. Then, “...Good.” 

Dean waits for more, but after that Nick starts snoring, and that might be the most sedating noise Dean knows, so sleep overtakes him too.

* * *


	63. Fuck them!

* * *

# Fuck Them!

3 years, 3 months (2 years, 6 months)

They’ve said their goodbyes to Gabe and Cas, and are finally on their way home. They’re yet to decide what they’ll do once they’ve returned the car. Maybe they’ll stay in the city, get a cheap apartment, and keep working like they used to. They’ve established contacts and built a reputation after all. But who knows? Maybe they’ll move to a new place or go on a road trip. The future is wide open. 

That’s not Dean’s most pressing issue―his bladder is.

“Pull over. I need to pee.”

“You’re _kidding_ , right?”

“No. I really need to pee. Like, right, the fuck, now.”

“Darling, we’re barely out of the city limits. We’ve been on the road for less than forty minutes and most of them stuck in traffic. I’m _not_ stopping. Besides, there isn’t a gas station for at least thirty minutes.”

“There’s a huge fucking forest to the right. Just pull the goddam car over.”

“No. I’m not―”

Gabe had made an assortment of wonderful, sweet coffee drinks, with spices and syrups and chocolate and whatnot before they left. Dean had downed every last one of them, something he felt he was about to regret embarrassingly if Nick didn’t pull the fucking car over. “ _Now_ , Nick, I swear to God, I’ll pee on _your_ fucking pants.” 

“Alright, alright. Fuck sake.” Nick drives to the side of the road and stops. 

Dean can hear him muttering something about tiny bladders when he gets out the car and slams the door. In pure protest, he jogs into the forest, out of view of the car. Nick’s not getting the satisfaction of seeing him pee like a horse, to be able to tease him for it later. It’s convoluted logic, but he can’t think straight with his bladder about to explode.

* * *

When he comes back, fucking floating with relief, he sees a police car parked behind Cayenne. His heart leaps anxiously in his chest, adrenaline starting to pump. He sneaks around so he’s behind the police car. The officer is currently by his car, checking Nick’s driver’s license. The officer is alone.

Dean sneaks closer, using as much stealth he can muster. His heart stops in alarm when a twig cracks underfoot. He freezes. 

 

But no.

The cop doesn’t react. 

Dean starts moving again. He reaches the road and edges closer to the car, crouched down low. 

He’s currently glad they'd opted for a smaller country road instead of the highway. There aren't many cars on this road, as the highway would be faster, even clogged up with traffic. 

He’s hidden behind the trunk when the cop gets out and goes back towards Cayenne again. 

Dean can see something is wrong right away. First off, the cop doesn’t bring the driver’s license back with him. As if that alone doesn’t set off sirens, the cop walks carefully now, one hand on his gun. “Sir, I need you to step out of your car, please,” the cop calls to Nick who's waiting with his window rolled down.

“Fuck,” Dean curses under his breath. 

He slinks forward, into the driver’s seat of the cop car, and scans the data screen with the information the cop had gotten on Nick. What he reads makes him curse under his breath again. 

He pockets Nick’s driver’s license and the registration papers, takes up his pocket knife to quickly disable and dislodge the dash cam, then grabs the big Maglite he finds in the car. 

He scuttles around crouched down, so he remains behind the cop, hoping that there won't be any cars passing by since he’s now in the middle of the road. 

Nick’s being cooperative. He gets out of the car and follows instructions, putting his hands on the car roof, spreading his legs and letting the cop frisk him. Not until the cop grabs his wrist and bends his hand backward to cuff him, does he start to get agitated.

“You’re under arrest. Everythin―“ the cop starts reciting.

“But I haven’t done anything? Why are you arresting me?” Nick asks, turning his head with a questioning look.

“―ing you say, can and will be used against you in a court of law. You―“ the cop goes on, determined to finish reading the Miranda rights before anything else.

“Fuck that! Why the hell am I under arrest?! Tell me why the fuck you’re arresting me!” Nick tries to spin around but is brusquely shoved back against the car. He’s not exactly resisting, but he’s starting to panic now that he’s handcuffed.

“―have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford one, one will b―”

Dean deems himself close enough, gets up and sprints the few strides to the cop’s back. The cop hears him and starts turning around, but it’s too late. Dean brings down the Maglite on his head with as much force as he can muster.

The cop collapses to the ground. Dean whacks him one more time just to make sure he stays down.

“Dean!” Nick exclaims in relief.

“To the rescue,” Dean agrees and crouches down to get the keys from the unconscious cop. He finds them and gets up and uncuffs Nick. “The car has been reported as stolen―”

“Fucking Mikey!”

“ _Oh_ yeah, but that’s not all,” Dean agrees and crouches down to get the belt and shirt off of the cop. He doesn’t care if the rough handling causes bruising and scrapes, right now the cop’s an enemy. He quickly shrugs into the uniform shirt, buttons it and stuffs it in his pants, then attaches the belt with holster and all its gear. Now if a car should pass, Dean will―at first glance―look like a cop. He cuffs the police. “Help me get him to the backseat of the patrol car.”

Nick scurries to hoist the man up like a dead weight on his shoulders. Not what Dean had in mind, but whatever works. “Not all? What else?” Nick probes and staggers under the weight towards the patrol car.

“You were being arrested for car theft, but you were also wanted for questioning about a murder of some dude named Bart Bucker, Bunkner, or whatever, under ‘reasonable suspicion’.”

“Brad Buckner?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“ _Fuck_! That’s the guy I took out for Mikey. I can’t believe he’d rat me out! And now they’ve probably got dash cam footage of you whacking a cop, so we’re both screwed!”

“No they don’t. I disabled it. You never told this guy why you stopped?” Dean says as they approach the patrol car. He opens the backseat door and Nick hoists the cop inside with a grunt. The cop is bleeding from his head. He’s breathing, but still out cold.

“Sure I did. I said I stopped to text my brother. Told him my uncle’s undergoing heart surgery and my brother’s in vigil.”

“Why’d ya lie?”

“Force of habit. Shit, darling, what are we going to do now? I can’t go to jail. I _can’t_. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!” Nick’s freaking the fuck out. His eyes are starting to get a wild and haunted, gaze darting around.

Dean slaps him. “Get a grip. We’re _not_ going to jail.”

It works. Nick flinches, but re-focuses at Dean, looking like he needs Dean to take the lead on this one.

“Alright, baby. This is what we’ll do. We’re going to strip this car for weapons and destroy its radio. Then we’ll lock the car and throw the keys into the woods. We’re going to go to Mike’s place and return Cayenne. They can’t accuse us of car theft if the car’s in its own parking spot and the keys hang in his apartment, right? So they’ll have nothing on you. Look,” Dean bends down and points at the screen inside the car. “It says _reasonable suspicion_ on the Buckner thing. That means they can detain you for a shorter period of time for questioning, but not arrest you cuz they ain’t got anything solid. For that, they need probable cause. Which the guy thought he had about car theft and will lose as soon as the car is returned, right?”

“Yes, but we still have clobbering a fucking cop to add to the fucking list,” Nick argues.

“Yeah, but they can’t pin that on you. It fucking wasn’t you, it was me. And if we wipe off my prints there’s no evidence. As long as it’s on me, you ain’t going to jail, okay?”

“Okay. Right. Yes.”

“Good. Now let’s get the gloves from Cayenne and get to work,” Dean commands.

* * *

They work quickly and effectively once they get started. The cop remains passed out―not a good sign for his injuries. Dean can’t make himself care. A couple of cars pass, but Dean snags the pilot glasses from the patrol car’s dashboard and stands outside looking ‘official’ when they pass by without slowing down.

They strip the police car of weapons and some other useful gear, destroy the radio, pick the battery from the cop’s cell phone, wipe fingerprints off, lock the car with the cuffed man in the back, and throw away the keys.

Dean puts on a jacket to hide the uniform shirt and gets into Cayenne’s driver’s seat, still wearing the pilot glasses. (Because they’re fucking cool and he’ll damn well gonna keep them, alright?) As soon as Nick’s buckled himself up, Dean makes a U-turn back from where they came.

“Where are you going?” Nick asks, not expecting the change of direction.

“If I’m gonna be hunted as a criminal, I’ll give ‘em a crime to hunt me for.”

“And the cop thing isn’t enough?” Nick queries in bemusement.

Dean gives him an amused look. “Nope,” he answers, popping the P. “Trust me, you’re gonna like this.” He winks. That’s all Nick’s getting out of him for now.

* * *


	64. 1+1=3

* * *

# 1 + 1 = 3

3 years, 3 months (2 years, 6 months)

“I can’t fucking believe Mikey sold me out! I did it for him. He _encouraged_ me to!” Nick’s been silent the first ten minutes, lost in his own mind, then he started ranting instead, slamming the dashboard with his hand, fuming disbelievingly.

“Is it really so hard to believe? After the stunt we pulled?” Dean asks and takes a deep drag on his cigarette. He leans his elbow on the edge of the rolled-down window and steers with one hand. The traffic’s slow, but getting lighter now that rush hour's past. Dean, funnily enough, is calm, borderline tranquil. That might have to do with Nick _not_ being anywhere near calm. Even when he was silent, he’d radiated agitation.

It’s unlike Nick to get this ruffled, but if there’s one thing you learn, having a life-and-death occupation, is that you never react the same way twice. You can do the same thing hundreds of times, and freak out or break down the hundred and first. There’s no way Nick could have worked special forces if he always reacted like this. And Dean thinks Mikey’s betrayal is the key to why Nick’s so shook up now. It’s damn personal this time.

“Yes. It is. I _know_ Mikey. This isn’t like him.”

“So maybe it isn’t him?” Dean suggests with a shrug.

“Nobody else _knows_ about Buckner.”

“How can you be sure?” Dean argues. Not that _he_ doesn’t believe it’s Mike, but they should still look into all the other options if there are any.

“Why else wait more than a decade to rat?”

“I dunno. Since you can’t believe it’s Mike, then maybe it’s not. Maybe he did tell someone who he is friends with, who’s lashing out to defend him without his involvement? Or maybe it’s someone who’s known, and now wants to get to _him_ , with us being collateral damage? Cuz if you look at it crassly, he ordered a murder. Maybe y’all were wrong, and he loved Bevell enough to run his mouth, and she’s going after all of us. There are several options. Hell, it could even be Cas.”

“ _Ca_ -as?! Are you fucking insane?” Nick protests, scrunching up his face in complete outrage.

Dean snorts in amusement. “Dude. I’m not saying it _is_ Cas. It’s just that you said he’s a scheming bitch, and he opposed our little circus show. Maybe he―”

“Nu-uh. No way. You don’t know him, Dean. He’s the one of us most adamant that any conflict between us should be resolved as swiftly, and as privately as possible.”

“Alright. How ‘bout your dad?”

“If it was just the car, possibly. But he doesn’t know about Buckner. And if he did, you can be sure as fucking hell he’d have used that to get me put away much sooner. He hates me and the feeling’s mutual.”

“So it’s Mike then.”

“I guess it has to be.” The answer isn’t satisfying to Nick, but he’s calmed down somewhat, discussing other options. He looks out the window with a troubled frown.

Dean takes another deep drag on the cigarette and holds it out outside the window to let the wind blow the ashes away. He mulls it over.

Okay, so Dean doesn’t think it’s as unlikely that it’s Mike behind this as Nick does. The simplest solution is often the correct one. People change. Nick, Cas, and Gabe may not think so, but they hold fast to the image they have of Mike, growing up. Dean, on the other hand, has known Mike as a lying asshole from the getgo. And how well did the brothers really know Mike? They met a few times a year. The rest of the year, Mike worked more closely with their father. They’d said that he became the perfect son to protect them. An illusion he created for Marlon’s sake. But how long until the illusion becomes reality? You act a certain way long enough, you become what you pretend to be, don’t you?

Even Mike turning his back on Nick makes sense if you think long and hard about it. Mike’s a sane person. He might very well have freaked out after that tumble in the hay with Nick.

Dean thinks about how he himself would react if he’d been sleeping next to Sam and got the urge to bone him. No. _Acted_ on that urge. That’s not a feeling that comes out of nowhere. It must have been growing over time, and then, _BAM_. Then what? 

Soul-crushing shame, most likely.

Fucking incest. 

Dirty bad wrong unless you happened to be part of the Polahi tribe in Indonesia. 

But let’s pretend he had these feelings towards Sam (trying not to cringe about imagining it) and one night ‘it’ happened. What would he do?

If he’s honest with himself, he’d probably keep it up, if Sam was in on it. Consumed by shame no doubt, but as long as…

“Were you in on it?” he asks Nick.

“ _What_?”

Right. They’d both gone back to drifting in their own heads for minutes. Nick can’t know what he’s thinking about. “You and Mike. When you had your tumble in the hay. You said he initiated it, and you were drunk. What I want to know, is if you were in on it?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Nick questions annoyedly.

“Maybe nothing, possibly everything. Doesn’t matter, just give me the deets.”

Nick scrutinises him for a moment, but Dean keeps his eyes on the road. They’re back in the city and there are fucking bicycles on the road. Nick sighs, drags a hand over his face, then turns his head to look out the window. “I was conflicted. I know it’s wrong, darling. And at first, that’s what my brain was telling me….. But then…um... then it wasn’t my brain talking anymore.” He’s quiet for a beat, swallowing audibly. “Nor my dick…., it didn’t…. It didn’t _feel_ as wrong as it should. I know it’s fucked up―”

“Oy, I’m not judging over here. Just tryna get a picture.”

Nick turns his head to look at him, gauging the truth of the statement before looking out the windshield. “I said no, at first, and he talked me into it. Didn’t take much. I could never deny him anything. But once we got started….If Mikey had wanted that from me, I wouldn’t have hesitated to do it again. Is that answer enough?”

“Sure is.”

Okay so Nick _was_ in on it.

So if Sam was in on it, Dean would keep going. But he’s a lot more fucked up than Mike is. So Mike, who is sane, might very well have freaked once he thought things through. Maybe the only way he could guarantee that he wouldn’t fall into the pit again was to cut Nick out of his life completely. He might even have gone as far as to accuse Nick in his head, of leading him on. Wasn’t it what he said? That Nick was manipulating? Maybe the angry vehemence came from him trying to convince himself it was Nick’s fault?

The feelings towards Nick would have remained intact, despite it all. So when he ran into Dean, who had so many similarities to Nick but no shared DNA, he jumped to replace Nick with Dean.

Nothing but a substitute.

Dean makes a bitter face. “Ugh.”

“I know you think it’s gross, darling, but―”

“Hey, hey. No, stop. I was thinking about Mike using me as a substitute for you, and it disgusted me, not being liked for myself as I was head over heels for him. I wasn’t thinking of you and him,” Dean hastens to assure.

“You’re not grossed out when you think of us,” Nick states skeptically.

“Honestly, I try not to think about it. If I did, I might develop a nasty brother kink pretty damned fast,” Dean answers and flicks his cigarette out the window.

Nick snorts, then sniggers. “Fair enough.”

Dean turns into a suburban street and stops the car. “Alright. We’re here. Keep the car running, and go as soon as I get in again, okay?” Dean instructs and gets out of the car.

“Getaway driver. Got it,” Nick confirms and gets out to switch to the driver’s seat. Once he’s sat behind the wheel, Dean leans against the open car door and bends down to talk to him.

“Hey, Nick?”

Nick looks expectantly at him. By now he knows what’s coming. “What?”

“What did the Buddhist ask the hot dog vendor?” Nick shakes his head at Dean’s question, indicating that he doesn’t know. “Make me one with everything.”

Nick groans and gives him a dry look.

“The Buddhist gave him a $50, and the vendor pockets it,” Dean continues. “The Buddhist asks for change and the vendor replies, ‘change comes from within.’”

Nick snorts a laugh and shakes his head. Dean closes the car door and switches into battle mode, hurrying around the corner.

* * *

Dean comes jogging between two houses, relieved to see the car still there. As an added bonus there’s no police around this time. He slows down not to attract attention, hands in his jacket pockets to discreetly support the bundle hidden inside his jacket. He reaches the car and gets inside.

“All good?” Nick asks.

“Yup. Drive down to the intersection. We’re going to want to switch position again.”

Nick gives him a puzzled look and obliges.

Dean’s practically buzzing with excitement. “I love you, Nicholas.”

Nick twitches in surprise and glances at him with raised eyebrows without taking his main focus from the road. It’s the first time Dean’s said it spontaneously and seemingly without anything to prompt it. Nor did it feel as hard to say either. It’s becoming easier and easier with each time. Now he added the full name to truly draw attention.

“I just wanted to say congratulations,” Dean adds trying to sound serious, which is hard when he’s exhilarated and trying not to beam.

“For what?”

“Nick, baby, you’ve just become a father,” he informs him and pulls down his jacket zipper far enough for a little brown head to poke out and look around curiously.

Nick sucks in a breath and turns the blinkers on to signal switching lanes. “Nooo….” he breathes reverently.

“Yep. We’ve got ourself our first kid. We’re parents now.” Dean grins so hard it feels his cheeks are going to split.

Nick stops the car on a loading zone just before the intersection. A smile that seems to encompass his whole being spreads across his face, eyes suspiciously misty. “You’re mad,” he accuses, but in a way that makes it a compliment. Dean winks at him, opens the car door and goes around the hood of the car, Nick following suit eagerly.

Once they’ve switched position and closed the doors Dean unzips his jacket completely. “Let me introduce you to our newest family member - Mavis,” Dean announces and holds the puppy towards Nick.

“It’s a boy,” Nick says as he gingerly takes it. It waggles its tail and tries to lick his mouth when he puts it against his chest with the softest expression on his face.

“It’s a Mavis.”

“It’s a Mavis,” Nick agrees. “Hey, baby boy,” he coos at the puppy. “We’re your new daddies. We’re going to take good care of you, sweetheart, you hear?”

Dean shakes his head affectionately, then pulls into traffic again.

* * *


	65. Second Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I've told a few of you, I decided to do something new in this fic. I'm going to let you choose how this fic will end (kinda). I'm giving you a heads up. Chapter 69 will be two versions of the same ten minutes. At the end of 69 there will be a link to a anonymous survey with one question. I beg you to click it, and to cast your vote for which direction the story should go. Once you've voted I go on to write the ending. Only a few more chapters until then. ^^'

* * *

# Second Thoughts

3 years, 3 months (2 years, 6 months)

They stop once an hour to let Mavis relieve himself. There had only been two puppies left in the litter. Nick thinks those were the puppies the breeder had chosen to keep, as Mavis is several weeks older than the allotted delivery date. The upside of that is that Mavis is house trained already, but not used to road tripping. He’s still working out what rules apply where, but they quickly establish that when he starts whining, he needs to go (after one little accident on Dean’s pants).

They wait until they’re in the next state before finding a pet store to buy what they need for Mavis. They have an argument about whether they need a crate or not. Dean thinks it seems cruel to lock a dog in a crate. Nick of all people should get that. However, Nick argues for buying a crate. It’s safer in a car, and since they might be moving around quite a bit, the crate can be a permanent safe space for the dog. “Just because there’s a door on it, doesn’t mean we need to close it, you asshat,” Nick chastises. He has a point.

Then there’s the issue of a microchip. Nick calls Gabe, asking him if there’s a good (but shady) vet around, that will take cash - no questions asked. Gabe’s absolutely delighted to hear that Dean stole a dog. It’s becoming increasingly clear to Dean that Gabe has a problem with authorities. Gabe calls back two hours later with an address. They visit the vet who does a checkup, then removes the chip to replace it with another, registering them as owners. Mavis is now a ‘new’ dog. It’s to their advantage that Mavis doesn’t have any traits that stand out in comparison to the rest of the breed.

Even if they did buy a crate Mavis sits in the lap of whoever is in the passenger seat for the greatest part.

The first evening they have a fight over where the puppy will sleep. Dean thinks he should be allowed free roam to the room and their bed, while Nick thinks he should be in the crate for at least the first couple of weeks. After that, he thinks they should get a dog bed and not allow Mavis on the bed while they slept. 

“That’s _absurd_! He's family! Why the hell not?”

“Because you fucking fight in your sleep, moron! Ironically, the only way to wake you when you do that is to hit you so hard it'd almost knock you out if you were awake. And I can take it when you fight like that. Worst case you give me a broken rib or a black eye. But you lash out at Mavis, you might break his fucking neck!”

Suddenly, Dean can’t fucking breathe. His throat’s too tight. He drags his hand over his face, eyes wide open. They start to sting. He sees Nick’s expression go from angry to regretful in the thunderous silence. “Dean,” he says in a consolatory tone and reaches out with a hand towards Dean.

Dean steps back, holding his hands up. “No, no. I get it. You’re right. I just…” he shakes his head and averts his gaze. He can’t fucking be here. The walls are closing in on him. He turns around and heads for the door. Nick calls out after him, but he leaves the motel room without acknowledging him. He’s not sure where he’s going but he needs to get away and shake this mist from his head. He walks with his gaze on the ground, taking long strides. He leaves the paved road to turn into the grass, high and wild over here where fields are lying fallow. He’s not sure how long he walks before his legs doesn’t want to carry him anymore and he sits down. He can’t see over the grass. He doesn’t want to. Instead, he curls into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest.

_I’m a danger to those around me. Fuck. Nick’s right. What if I hurt Mavis in my sleep? Jeezus Christ! I could never forgive myself!_

Mavis is so tiny. A well-placed elbow could crush his ribcage. 

The fear of anything happening to that little brown eyed, heart melting critter makes Dean want to gag. His head starts playing up scenarios of danger, most of them caused by himself one way or another. The tears start coming, closing up his throat and squeezing his ribs, cramping his belly. He never used to cry, but now it feels like it happens all the time. He’s pathetic. Maybe it’s the combination of not having a Purpose™ and finally starting to feel emotionally safe. Maybe he’s just a fucking sissy and he's been able to hide it until he got kicked out of the army.

_I’m so fucking broken._

There’s a rustling behind him. He doesn’t react at first. Then Mavis start barking, coming towards him at great speed. Dean looks up just in time to be assaulted by a happy, proud puppy. Mavis licks at his face, bumping it with his cold little nose. He’s got his leash on, trailing behind him without Nick at the other end. “Hey, little fella. Where’s your daddy?”

Mavis only answer is slobber and yipping, trying to jump up to reach Dean’s head when he bends it out of reach to dry tears and dog saliva off. He grabs the leash just to be safe, so Mavis won’t run off again.

“There you are,” Nick says softly.

Dean yelps and turns his body to stare at Nick. “Jesus _fuck_! You move like a fucking ghost,” he chides and shifts his legs down so he can lift the warm little puppy into his lap and hold it against his chest. Mavis calms down, deciding that a cuddle is okay for now.

Nick smirks. “Old habits die hard.” He turns serious. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

“What? Oh you mean the _truth_?” Dean retorts sarcastically.

Nick shifts uncomfortably. He uses his leg to flatten some of the high grass beside Dean, then sits down in the little nest they’ve created. “I made it sound like an accusation, and I’m sorry about that. We can have Mavis sleeping beside us, as long as the bed is big enough and he’s lying beside me, buffering for him, in case you have one of those nightmares. They don’t come _that_ often.”

Mavis gets bored of cuddles and struggles free. He sets off towards, and into the high grass. Dean holds onto the leash. He can’t see the puppy, but they hear him and can reel him back. “I’m so fucking stupid, Nicky. I’m a fucking danger to those I care about, without meaning too. They shoot rabid dogs. Maybe they shoulda done that with me too.”

Nick scoffs. “Don’t talk like that. Do you _want_ to die?”

“Nobody _wants_ to die. I’m just saying it would be better for the world if I did. And, _fuck_. I’m such a fucking queen, ain’t I? Storming out on ya when I can’t handle the truth, like a fucking pussy. Half the time I don’t even know why I react so strongly all the time. It’s like an emotional fucking pinball game.”

Nick chuckles and nudges Dean’s shoulder with his own. “I would prefer if you didn’t storm off. But I understand the need to walk it off, darling. And I don’t think you’re a drama queen. Yesterday the sky was the limit and now the heat is on us. You kept your cool when you needed, but you’re bound to be stressed out.”

Dean snorts.

Nick sighs. “Darling, if I’m to be honest with you, I prefer it when you get emotional about things. There’s no doubt in my mind that you had all these feeling within, before too. But you bottled them up and hid them, so I didn’t know what hit me, most of the time. You’d just, _disappear_. And I was left playing guessing games, wondering what the hell I’d done wrong.”

“Most of the time, it wasn’t your fault. It was the demons in my head.”

“Yes, but I didn’t, _don’t_ , know that unless you tell me. And these night terrors you have… we’ll handle it. Find ways to work around it.”

“I fucked up. Taking Mavis. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Or I do, but it’s fucked up. Seemed reasonable at the time, but now…”

“What _were_ you thinking?” Nick asks curiously and rests his chin against Dean’s shoulder. Mavis comes back, stares at them for a beat, and disappears into the grass again, in another direction. Without the leash, he’d be completely lost to them within seconds.

“I was thinking that you wanted a border terrier. And I was thinking the world could go fuck itself. I knew where the breeders we met in the park lived since we’d driven past their house and seen the dogs in the yard. Honestly, I didn’t care if I stole an adult or a puppy. I was so focused on getting you a dog. But they were good people. They didn’t deserve to lose a puppy just because it was _convenient_ for me. I shoulda found some asshole that mistreated their dog and taken it instead. But at the time, I was thinking ‘it’s just a dog’.” He shakes his head. “Fucking hell. There’s nothing ‘just’ about him.” Dean drags a hand over his face. He’s starting to get what all the fuss is about. Why pet owners are like they are.

Nick smiles. “There sure isn’t.”

“Fuck, they gotta be so worried now. And what kinda life can we provide for him anyway? Maybe we should return him.”

Nick sits up straight. “Whoa. Let me stop you right there, partner. Yes, I agree that taking him maybe wasn’t the most well thought out plan you ever had. But I’m not letting him go now.”

“You really think we can give him a good home with the life we lead?”

“Sure I do. In theory it might not look that way, but the reality will be something else. You ever had any dealings with the dog handlers in the army?”

“They were around. But not really.”

“Some of their dogs, despite being in fucking war zones with us, had pretty great lives. Just as some of the happiest dogs I’ve met have been owned by homeless people. And I think you’re right, regarding Mavis as family, including him in everything. That’s what I want. Where we go, he tags along.”

Dean regards Nick, not fully convinced. He knew at least some of the working dogs suffered PTSD just like the people did.

“Look,” Nick says. “You want to make amends to the breeders? We can pay for him, and leave them a message that will probably piss them off, but make them worry less. Hell, but we can put them up as the secondary contact on Mavis’ microchip so that if anything should happen to us, they’ll be contacted. But I’m not letting go of him now that we got him.”

As if called, Mavis comes trotting back out from the grass. Dirt’s covering his head and front paws. He whines and scampers towards Dean who lifts him into his lap to cuddle. Mavis yawns then lie down to sleep while Dean pets him, oblivious of all the doubts and fears whirling around in his new daddy’s head. “Yeah… let’s do that,” Dean decides. They’ll make it work, cops on their tail or not.

* * *

Dean might not have thought things through, but he doesn’t mind the changes that come with dog ownership. He smokes less, even if he still smokes inside (with a window open). They make sure at least one of them is clearheaded, opting to stay in the motel instead of going to a pub. None of them keep a 100% sober, especially when it comes to pain meds, but they keep consumption down for Mavis safety. 

Gabe helps them make an anonymous delivery of a message and money to the breeder, after teasing them about how useless they are as thieves. Whatever. 

Mavis is house trained, but he’s also still a baby, so accidents happen. It’s not a big deal. The biggest problem is knowing what whine means what, because Mavis will vocalise anything from needing to pee/poop, being bored, hungry, or tired. He’s a pretty talkative little fella and enjoys riding in the car, where he’ll put his front paws on the window and peer curiously at everything. Nick keeps the alarm on his phone set so that they always feed Mavis at the same time every day.

It takes nearly a week to get to Mike’s place at their tempo. They choose smaller roads where they can stop easily for short breaks, and they search out dog-friendly motels, stopping earlier in the evenings than they would without Mavis. They’re in luck, and don’t have any more run-ins with the police before they reach their destination.

* * *


	66. Channel 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to take a moment to express my immense gratitude for my Beta [mizz_kitty2](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mizz_kitty21)1 for all the help she's giving me. Her in-depth commentary and astute observations give me a good grasp of if all the hints I'm dropping are shining through or not. It's because of her I manage to keep the count of the holes in the plot down, and I get to know if I need to add things because a chapter might get people to start thinking in the wrong direction.
> 
> I also want to thank [YouCantKeepMeDown](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YouCantKeepMeDown) who also is helping me out, giving me a second opinion on the story before publishing. :) I've gotten the honour of Betaing her Samifer fic [Family Ties](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9290795/chapters/21056393) and I recommend you go check it out if you like sass and criminals. ;)

* * *

# Channel 45

(3 years, 4 months) 2 years, 7 months

“You think he’ll call the cops on us when we go up to return the car keys?”

“I fucking hope not. I want to ask him what the fuck he was thinking, ratting on me.”

“Whelp. You’re about to get your chance.”

Dean turns the blinkers on to indicate that he’s about to drive down into the garage. He lets a car pass, then makes the turn and uses the button to open the window. He holds the key card up to a reader and the gates open. “Maybe we should give Eli a call to see if he can come get up. We've got quite a lot of stuff.”

“We wouldn't have, if you hadn't insisted we keep the blender,” Nick deadpans.

“Fuck off. It’s a good blender,” Dean retorts with a grin. They _have_ accumulated more stuff than will let itself be easily carried without a car. But the blender is just a tiny part of the problem. Sometime soon they’ll have to go through tons of clothes to throw away what they don’t need unless they get themselves a new car. 

_And what should we do with Nick’s bike? He loves that monstrosity._

Dean parks the car and they get out to unload. Once they’ve got everything they lock the car and walk to the elevator. They step inside and Dean puts down a bag to put the key in the lock for the penthouse. All the other floors have normal buttons, but the penthouse requires a key. Mavis gets a bit nervous when they start to move. Both of them ignores it, acting as if it’s perfectly normal for a tiny room to shake a bit. Mavis seems to trust their judgement and stills. Dean’s jittery. Nick seems calm to the point of boredom. 

The elevator door dings open. They step into the foyer. “You think he’ll have changed locks?” Dean asks.

“We’re about to find out, darling,” Nick replies dryly.

Dean once again puts down a bag to unlock. The key fits as well as it’s always done. “Honey, I’m _ho_ -ome,” Dean calls when he opens the door, voice chipper to hide his nerves. There’s no answer. He exchanges a look with Nick and they step inside.

It’s quiet.

“Mike, are you home?” Dean calls out. The place is clean. But that indicates nothing, as cleaners come twice a week whether anyone’s at home or not. Dean used to think of it as a waste of money, but Mike had told him that he could afford it, and it’s better to keep staff well paid and loyal than have them forced to leave for other employers and have to change all the time. It made sense, looking at it that way. Having seen how Naomi had been kept on after her initial services as a nanny no longer were needed, Dean can understand where this way of thinking comes from.

“Maybe he’s in the gym?” Nick suggests.

“Maybe…” Dean says distractedly. He puts down all the bags and makes his way through the lounge to the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator. “Nope. He’s not at home and hasn’t been for a while. There’s mouldy food in here. He’d never let that happen.”

“Fuck,” Nick curses and comes walking into the kitchen. “What do you suggest we do?”

“How bout we stick around for a day or two, to see if he shows up? We can figure out what to do next and get our hands on a car before we move on.”

“Fair enough.”

* * *

Okay, so maybe they stick around longer than they should. There’s a lot of puppy training to be done, for starters. Mavis is a delight, but he’s not a perfect little obedient angel. 

Dean’s always thought that if he ever became a dad―not just a sire of a kid, but an actual dad―he’d be a pretty chill parent. But nope. He’s a worry wart. Nick’s the chill one. 

They work. One of their bosses at the docks ‘offers’ to keep Mavis in the office while they work, and to take him for short walks because, as he puts it, “I need to get up from my office chair and stretch my legs anyway.” Dean uses the term ‘offer’ lightly. It’s more of a plea. In fact, they’re offered work the whole week, instead of needing to show up in the morning and hope for the best. Whatever. The bossman is smitten and the arrangement works out well for all parties involved. 

They stop by at Eli’s after work. Eli is fine with Mavis’ presence and supplies him with water. They stick around for an hour, only having a drink or two before going home.

The weekend is spent outdoors. They find a dog park where Mavis can get to play with other dogs. Having a puppy makes people a) more inclined to like you, and b) talk to you. They’re constantly approached by friendly strangers who strike up a conversation. Dean’s starting to get that thing about moms only talking about their babies. He’d never thought there’d come a day when he’d be engrossed in a discussion about how many times a dog poops a day, but lo and behold, there he is. He’s fine with that. He can see the point of it now. It’s about monitoring the health of the life you’re responsible for. They’re getting better at reading Mavis’ body language, but the little guy can’t tell them exactly what’s wrong or what he wants, so keeping track of his behaviour is crucial.

They’ve got two major issues with their puppy. Mavis has a thing for dirty socks - Dean’s in particular. He’ll steal and chew on any dirty sock he can get his paws on. Rendering them full of holes and unusable. The other issue is that Mavis gets distressed when they have sex. This stops them from having spontaneous sex like they used to. To stop Mavis from barking and howling while they do the do, they have to be proactive. Dean hopes that one day, the dog will get used to it, but for now they put the crate in another room, tell Mavis to “Go to your room”, and he’ll go lay down in the crate. Mavis will still be distressed when he hears them, but not as badly as when he’s loose in the same room.

Two weeks later they’re still at Mike’s and he hasn’t shown up yet. They should move on, but there’s just so much happening all the time that it gets pushed to the future.

Then one day, Gabe calls.

“Turn on your TV to channel 45, _now_ ,” he says urgently.

Since they’re already laying on the couch watching TV, Nick changes the channel.

There’s a news anchor reading news, and an old picture of Nick in the upper right corner.

“ _...is believed to be armed and dangerous. If you see him, do not approach him. Contact your local police station immediately. Lucifer Williams is suspected to be behind the kidnapping of his brother, the acclaimed businessman Michael Williams, who has been missing since the 17th last month. Their father now makes a plea to the public, promising a reward to anyone who can supply information that will lead to the return of Michael Williams._ ”

The screen cuts to Marlon Williams, looking worried, being interviewed by a reporter. “ _I fear for my oldest son’s life. His younger brother Lucifer has always struggled with mental illness, and jealousy towards Michael―_ ”

“ _Lies! You fucking liar!_ ” Nick yells at the TV, getting to his feet. “You fucking asshole! I haven’t been―! _You’re_ the one with mental illness! You’re fucking deranged! ”

“Woah. Calm down, baby,” Dean urges. His heart is pounding hard. This is bad. This is real fucking bad. 

They miss half of Marlon’s short speech because of Nick’s outburst.

“... 50.000 dollars for any information that will lead to Michael’s safe return. Please. Call this number or contact the police or the FBI.”

The broadcast goes back to the news anchor who moves on to other news. Dean turns the TV off.

Nick sits down heavily and for a moment his heavy breathing is all they can hear.

“Well fuck,” Dean states.

Nick meets his gaze, eyes worried. “We’re fucked.”

In the bedroom, Mavis starts chewing on a squeaky toy, blissfully unaware of his daddies’ dread.

* * *


	67. Dream Catcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happens between Mave and Dean is based on a true story. My ex, a policeman who'd been in the service for 30 years, suffers from PTSD. He'd have the same troubles as Dean, but the same solution applied. :)

* * *

# Dream Catcher

(3 years, 7 months) 2 years, 10 months

“How about the British cunt? She said she’d make us pay. Has she done anything?”

“No. She’s opted for a more literal interpretation,” Cas tells him through the phone. “The Bevell have backed out of every trade agreement they’ve had with us. It’s costing us money, but apart from that I’ve seen no indication of her or her family trying to extract a personal form of revenge.”

“They stopped doin’ business with you too?”

Cas chuckles. “They certainly did. Williams is not a good surname to have while trading with the Brits at the moment.”

“Well that sucks,” Dean states and pulls the curtains aside so he can look out of the cabin window. He’s always restless when he and Nick are separated. Even if, like now, Nick’s just out for a walk with Mavis.

Cas hums. “I’ll make an admission. This whole ordeal has proven very beneficial for my businesses. It’s father who has taken the greatest backlash. Father and I have bet on different horses, and you shot his in the leg at that ball.”

“So you ain’t suffering financially because of what we did?”

Cas laughs. “Lord, no. Not even a little bit,” he answers with warm amusement. 

“That’s good. Anyone heard from Mike?”

Cas turns serious again. “No. Nothing. He might as well have been swallowed up by the earth. Are you looking for him too?”

“Not really. We’re mostly tryna not to get caught. Can’t really decide if he’s gone off the grid by choice, or if something’s really happened to him. Cuz you gotta admit, if he wanted to get us back, going AWOL is certainly doing it.”

“True. But I worry. About all three―”

“Four,” Dean inflicts, not wanting Mavis to be left out.

“Four,” Cas corrects, smile carrying through his voice. “I worry about all four of you. Say you wouldn’t be amenable to come to France and let yourselves be placed under my protection?”

“Mon mari ne veut pas vivre dans un pays où il ne parle pas la langue*,” Dean answers. He took French in school and has begun brushing it off while talking with Cas. He’s even gotten to talk with Jimmy a couple of times. Jimmy may be one of Cas’ body doubles, but his voice is much lighter, so when he answered Cas’ phone once, Dean caught him straight away. He’s a pretty cool dude. He used to be a stage actor, but when he got married and had kids, his priority changed. Instead of wanting renown for his acting skills, he wanted a steady paycheck. Cas’ offer had been a godsend.   
*My husband doesn't want to live in a country where he doesn't speak the language.

Cas chuckles again. “I know. But you might be able to convince him. I could use his language skills and cultural knowledge when dealing with some of my newest alliances.”

“What language skills?”

“Dean,” Cas says, using a chastising you-should-already-know-this tone, “he speaks, reads, and writes both Arabic and Farsi fluently. Why do you think he became special forces?”

“Huh. You know, I never wondered. I thought it was his fighting skills and mindset.”

“That probably played a part too, I’m sure. Did you get my last delivery?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. That’s why I called. Wanted to say thanks. Dunno how we’d be able to cope without your and Gabe’s help.” The delivery had contained a set of IDs with matching credit cards, cash, a laptop, two new phones with prepaid cards, and―God bless his soul―cigarettes.

“We take care of each other in this family. And until Mike is found, I very much doubt we can get you cleared of suspicion. Just keep a low profile.”

“You got it. I gotta go now. Talk to you later, yeah?”

“Yes,” Cas agrees. “Take care.”

“You too. Bye.” Dean hangs up. He sees someone coming through the dense foliage outside. For a beat, he doesn’t recognise the person. He drops the curtain and pulls his gun from its holster, then peeks through the slip between the curtain and the window, relaxing again. It’s Nick. 

Dean’s still not used to Nick’s new looks. They’ve been on the run for three months now, having had two close calls when the FBI had managed to track them down. They’d left Mike’s just in time, having called Eli to come get them within an hour after watching the news. Good thing that they did, because soon after they left they passed several police cars, and saw them stopping outside the building Mike lived in. The day after that they sold Nick’s bike and bought a car. They’ve kept moving until they found this cabin in the woods. It’s got both electricity and running water and seems to be a vacation home to some poor schmuck who hopefully won’t come a’knocking anytime soon.

Nick’s grown a beard and let his hair grow too. The picture the TV keeps showing of him is maybe a decade old. He’s got almost white-blond hair in it, cropped in a crew cut, and he’s clean shaven. The beard Nick’s sporting now, and the bangs combed down over his forehead, makes him look older and oddly enough―kinder. This morning they experimented with temporary hair dye, colouring both hair and facial hair brown. That’s why Dean didn’t recognise him at first.

Dean puts his gun away. 

Nick knocks a special series of knocks on the door to identify himself before entering. He looks tired when he steps inside. Mavis trots in at his heels, covered in mud and looking mighty pleased with himself.

“Hey, babe. What took you so long? I’d begun to worry.”

“Mave found a warren and went to ground. Getting the fucker out of there was next to impossible. On the bright side...” Nick holds up a dead rabbit and smirks lopsidedly with heavy eyelids.

“Mave killed it?” Dean asks.

“Sure did.”

Dean goes down to his knees and reaches for the growing puppy. He smiles proudly. “Where’s my fierce little hunter? You’ve been a good boy, gettin' us dinner? Such a good boy,” he coos as the panting puppy comes scampering.

“Should you really encourage him? I was scared he’d get stuck down there. He almost did. I had to pull him out by his tail.”

“Yeah, we should. Ain’t too shabby to have a hunting dog that can actually hunt when we’re fugitives. Who knows, one day he might actually save us from starvation. You wanted a lapdog you shoulda asked for a pomlomonian.”

Nick sniggers and removes his jacket, revealing the gun in the holster underneath. “A pomlo- _what_?”

“You know, one of those little pom-pom dogs?”

“Ah. You mean a _pomeranian_ ,” he teases.

“Whatever, man. Point is, we got ourselves a hunting breed, we might as well let him hunt. He likes it, and if we handle our cards right it’s a golden opportunity to train obedience with a reward he finds well worth it.”

Nick grunts. “He hurt his nose. Got scratched by the fucking rabbit.”

Dean chuckles and looks down at Mavis. Sure enough, there’s a little red scratch on the grinning dog’s face. “Bah. It’s nothing. I’ll clean it out. Since when are you the mother hen? I thought you were used to hunting dogs. You had ‘em growing up, right?”

“We did, but dad always bought them as adults. And we never had a small breed. I can wash it. Both I and Mave need a shower anyway. Do you know how to dress and butcher a rabbit?”

“Yup,” Dean answers and gets to his feet. He walks up to Nick, gives him a peck on the lips and takes the rabbit from him. “We’ll eat it tomorrow. I like to let it lie in salt water for a day to reduce the bitter game taste.”

“Whatever you say, dear. I’ll go soak with Mave now.”

* * *

Of course, Dean worries about why Mike’s missing. But until they came upon this cabin when walking Mavis in the woods one day, they’d been too busy dodging the feds, keeping themselves afloat and their car gassed up. Oddly enough, Dean feels rather good with life as it is right now. He had a period of intense mood swings the first month. It didn’t occur to him at the time that it could have had something to do with his increasingly low intake of alcohol. Not until his vision started getting blurry at inopportune moments, his heart would race, he’d freeze and sweat, and he even started hearing things. Nick figured it out at a lunch restaurant in Tulsa when Dean’s hand was shaking so badly that he couldn’t lift his glass of water without spilling. After conferring about what to do, they decided to ride it out. They found an abandoned factory and spent a week holed up in there. For three days Dean was barricaded in a room by himself. Nick would come in to check up on him, bringing food and water, but otherwise, let him ride out the storm away from Mavis. 

They’ve still got a stash of painkillers and weed, both for painkilling purposes. But Nick’s sober from alcohol too now. There’s no telling if they’ll choose to be sober for the rest of their lives or not. That’s not the point. It’s about breaking out of the habits that may muddle their judgement and put Mavis at risk. That little fucker had given Dean something he knew he needed but hadn’t known how badly he needed it. He _needed_ someone to be dependent on him. He thrived on responsibility, fucked up as it may sound. Being on the run also helped. The thinking ahead, keeping an eye out, solving problems. So paradoxically, he had it all now. A purpose, a family, and a stable love life. He’s surprisingly calm on the inside. He’d even go as far as to say he’s happy in a content way.

Even if there are worries, like where the fuck Mike is, and… “Are you sure it’s a wise move to let him roam free in the room while we sleep? What if he jumps up on my side of the bed?”

Nick snorts and kisses down Dean’s naked chest. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

“Yeah, but what if―” Nick bites down hard just below his ribcage, making his breath stutter and his back to arch up. “ _Fuck_!” 

“You’re fucking perfect when you do that, darling,” Nick praises and laves at the bite mark with his tongue.

“Do what?” Dean asks, breath strained and dick filling.

Nick pets his sides. “Go towards the pain, rather than try to escape it. Shit, baby, you have no idea what it does to me.”

Dean chuckles. “Uh, _yeah_. I’ve got a pretty good idea by now.” He smirks lopsidedly and looks down at Nick where he’s on all fours, straddling Dean’s legs on the bed.

And he really does know. Sometimes they make sweet love the way you’ll read about in romance novels. And sometimes Nick will fuck him so hard it puts his old drill sergeant Paul to shame. It will leave him bruised and battered and aching so good he’s practically walking on clouds. Then there’s a third kind of lovemaking that by the looks of it, Nick’s trying to initiate now…

Nick pinches his side, just a small but hard pinch while locking gaze with him, eyes hopeful and wicked. Dean fucking loves that wicked gleam, even if he knows that it speaks of pain to come. Pain on the edge of what he can take, but followed by the most intense adoration he’s ever had the fortune to experience. When Nick’s looking at him like that, he’s asking for permission. This, unlike mating like lions, isn’t something Dean will allow very often.

Dean gives him a small nod, heart beating faster.

“Mavis, go to your room,” Nick commands without taking his excited eyes from Dean. There’s a responding whine from the floor, then the sound of paws padding over the floor and something being dragged as Mavis goes to his crate in the kitchen, bringing the stuffed toy they bought for him that first week when they travelled to Mike’s penthouse. All the other stuffed toys they’ve given him have been decimated to shreds and emptied of their stuffing in minutes. But they grey stuffed bunny has been spared and will be chewed on and licked whenever Mave gets nervous or agitated.

“Not the face,” Dean redundantly reminds Nick. 

“I know, darling.” Nick pinches him again, just above the last pinch, making him hiss.

Nick’s a sadist. A sadist with an artistic side. And sometimes Dean will let him paint with fingers and teeth, being the canvas. Bruises are placed with perfection to create patterns that even Dean can consider beautiful when he manages to disregard what a fucking pervasion lies behind it. Thing is, even if Dean doesn’t appreciate this kind of pain and how it’s inflicted, few things turns him on as much as the mad arousal reflected on Nick’s face when he gets to do this. And it’s worth it. Even when he’s shaking and holding on to his wit's end not to beg Nick to stop, it’s still worth it. Nick will be worshipping and coddling him like a precious deity for days afterwards, doing everything to diminish the discomfort he got to cause.

Nick places another bite beside his last bite mark. “I love you,” he murmurs around the bite.

“Love you too.” To think those words were once so hard to say…

* * *

_”It should have been you,” his mom says, staring accusingly at him, face a bloody mess. “It was your fault.”_

_“That’s bullshit and you know it. Now, fuck off!” He turns on his heels and walks away from her in the hot desert. She shouldn’t be here. And if she’s here, the others aren’t far off. But maybe this time she won’t follow._

_It’s a slim hope. He hears her footsteps behind him so he walks faster._

_Benny steps out in front of him. What’s left of Benny, anyway. “I’m sorry, brother, but I can’t let you pass. It’s time.”_

_“Like hell it is!” He turns to the side and starts jogging. He needs to get away or they’ll get him for good this time. Fear is starting to course through his vein like ice. It’d be fucking great if they were slow like zombies, but they’re never slow. He can’t get away from them unless they let him. They’re always so fucking fast. The air is so hot it vibrates, distorting sight and creating mirages in the distance. It burns in his lungs._

_He’s grabbed from the side and jerked to a halt. Ennis is staring with angry accusation at him. “I didn’t deserve this. You should have died, not me!”_

_“I know. But it didn’t happen that way. Now leave me the fuck alone!” He tries to jerk himself from Ennis grip, failing, he kicks out, hitting Ennis straight in the chest. Ennis loses his grip._

_He takes off running. He can hear that he’s being pursued. They run like wolves, fanning out on his sides as well as behind him. There’s no way to kill them. He’s tried so many times. In_ The Walking Dead _you destroy the brain. No such luck here. Several of them don’t have a brain left to destroy. His mom, captain Barnes, Martyn―big pieces of their heads are already missing. They’re being joined by more and more people. Old friends, brothers in arms, lovers. All out to make sure he gets what they think he deserves. He doesn’t have any weapons. He never has his weapons when they’re about, and now he’s starting to tire._

_There’s a loud bang and he crumples to the ground with screaming pain in his knee. That’s all they need. He scrambles to his feet and sees Benny standing still further away, holstering his gun and looking regretfully at him while the other catch up and attack―some with their hands, others using knives and other handheld weapons. No firearms, though. Benny’s the only one with a gun and he keeps his distance, watching._

_He kicks and punches, elbows and headbutts. He doesn’t stand a chance and he knows it. He gets stabbed repeatedly. He doesn’t feel it, but he feels the punches, the kicks, and the scratches. Suddenly there’s a whining at his feet, somewhere in the chaos of limbs and desert dust below. “Jeezus, Mave!” He doesn’t even think before he throws himself to the ground, locates the terrified puppy and curls himself into a protective ball around him. “What are you doing here, Mave? You could get killed! You could―” He’s being battered from all sides and he won’t last much longer. And when he dies, this stupid, wonderful, innocent little creature who’s laid its life in his hands will die too because he can’t protect him._

_He feels himself starting to cry from the hopelessness of it all. They’ve killed him before, and he knows it’s over soon. And Mave will die. A warm tongue and a cold nose are pressed against his cheek, licking his tears away. It’s not fair. He’s slipping, losing blood. A boot hits the back of his head repeatedly. It jars his whole skull. He hears a loud crack when the boot comes down again and everything starts getting blurry, fading. “No. No! N―_

“NO!” Dean cries out and opens his eyes in horror. Mavis whines and licks the tears from his cheek. Mavis is still embraced in his arms, his body curled around the dog like a protective shield, but there’s no one hitting, stabbing and kicking him. His knee hurts, and there are faint aches on his body, but nothing too bad. He’s disoriented in the faint pre-dawn light.

“...Dean?”

Nick. That’s Nick’s voice. 

He lifts his voice and peers towards it. Nick’s standing in the middle of the cabin―Cabin. Right. They’re in a cabin. He’s safe―holding his hand over his nose and looking downright terrified.

“Yeah?”

“You’re awake?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank God.” Nick’s body sags with relief. He lowers his hand, revealing that he’s bleeding from the nose.

“Did I do that?”

“Um, yes. You got me with your elbow. I rolled off the bed to go get some paper, then I heard whining and turned around to see Mave on the bed. You were thrashing but he just climbed right up on your chest. Then you suddenly curled in on yourself around him and I thought,... I thought….” Nick’s voice is shaken. Dean can imagine what he thought. The same thing Dean’s been fearing since the day Nick brought it up when they’d just gotten Mavis. “But you didn’t. You stilled and lay stock still, mumbling in your sleep. Then you woke up.”

“I dreamed Mavis was there. Had to protect him.” Dean pets Mavis, calming the dog as well as himself.

“He got through to you.”

“Mighta been a fluke.”

“Might not have.”

Turns out, it’s not a fluke. The next time Dean starts thrashing in his sleep Nick puts the dog closer, holding him around the chest so he can pull the puppy to safety in case Dean won’t hear him and still. But Dean hears and calms down, waking up moments later. Same thing the time after that. And he never has those nightmares when Mave chooses to sleep on a pillow next to him. He still has bad dreams, but not the ones where the dead ones come to haunt him―the ones that make him fight. Nick tells him he’s read about parents being aware of their babies sleeping beside them, even while they’re asleep. Maybe it’s the same thing. 

Mavis too seems to be very happy about getting to sleep in bed with them. And if they start making out the dog will jump off the bed, get his stuffed bunny and go lie in the crate. He’ll come back later when they’re finished. That idiotic impulse Dean had a couple of months ago, is turning out not to be as idiotic after all. Pieces are falling into place.

* * *


	68. Cabin Fever

* * *

# Cabin Fever

(3 years, 8 months) 2 years, 11 months

Dean’s perfectly happy living in a cabin far away from civilisation with only Nick, Mavis, and phone calls with Gabe and Cas as social stimuli. It’s harder for Nick. He might not be a chatty Cathy, but he’s a very social person, who needs people around him to be happy. The odd supply run down to the closest village isn’t really enough for him.

Dean wakes up to find the bed empty save from Mave lying flat on his back, paws twitching and wuffing softly in his sleep. Nick’s nowhere to be seen. It’s the middle of the night and Dean gets worried. He slips out of bed carefully not to disturb Mave, gets dressed and goes outside. Nick’s turned on the outdoor lights and is smoking with his neck bent and his back to the door.

“Nicky…?” Dean calls softly. Nick looks up, half turns towards him to glance at him before bending his neck and taking another tight drag on the cigarette. Dean caught a glint under his eye before his bent neck put it in shadow again. “Are you crying, baby?”

“It’s nothing. Go back to bed.”

“The hell I will.” Dean goes to stand beside him. Despite having told him to go away Nick turns towards him, wordlessly welcoming the company. “What’s wrong?”

Nick shakes his head. “Bad dreams. Nerves.”

“Nerves? Dude, it’s been dead quiet out here. We’ve been safe for almost two months.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Cabin fever?”

Nick hums. “Probably. I miss people…. Not that you’re not good company, but…”

“No, hey. I get it.”

“You’re not affected? It doesn’t seem that way, at least.”

Dean shakes his head and looks out over the dark forest. “Nah. There’s too much to do.”

Nick’s lips quirk in a small smile as he watches the ground. “You sure know how to entertain yourself, I’ll give you that.”

As soon as they’d decided to stay here for a while Dean had started doing repairs, fixing the cabin up. It wasn’t an abandoned cabin. It was clear that it was used now and then. But some things needs tending once in awhile and as is common for houses only used a few weeks a year, some things had fallen into disrepair. The owner would find himself surprised when he got here, finding all the little I’ll-take-care-of-it-some-other-time things fixed. The only vandalism he’d done was a doodle on the wall, with “كان كيلروي هنا” written underneath. It meant “Kilroy was here” in Arabic. At least, that’s what Nick assured him it meant when he painstakingly drilled Dean on how to write it on a paper beforehand. After Cas had revealed Nick’s language skills Dean had asked to be taught. It isn’t going very well. Arabic is fucking _hard_. Nick had told him he’d been smitten with their written language when he was eight and had learned both Arabic and Persian based on how beautiful their writing was. Dean found it next to impossible to learn, but the lessons killed an hour a day. Anyway, the writing on the wall was a great joke if the owner decided to bring the police, claiming terrorists had lived here, and they brought in an interpreter. 

“I dreamed a childhood dream of mine,” Nick tells him, taking another stressed drag on the cigarette. “The one where I get locked into our wine cellar.”

“The dungeon?”

“Yes. But this time it was different. They came for us in the middle of the night. You and Mave didn’t make it…. I was dragged to the cellar in the estate, locked in there, and left to rot. No guards, no food, nothing. Just endless isolation until… I woke up, but it’s no mystery how that would have ended.”

No wonder Nick woke up crying and couldn’t go back to sleep. Dean stares into the forest. There’s a rustling in the underbrush and two green dots reflect the lamp light. It’s the fox that lives somewhere nearby. It drives Mave crazy anytime he finds its fresh trail.

“The weather’s been kinda awesome lately. It’s just a matter of time before the owner of the cabin shows up for a little vaycay. Maybe it’s time we moved on?” Dean offers. He doesn’t want to. Not really. He’d rather take his chances here, or ask Gabe to find them another safehouse in the woods where no owner would show up. But Nick doesn’t have the mindset to be stuck out in nowhere for prolonged periods of time.

“I think so.”

Dean’s quiet for a while, mulling things over. There’s an owl hooting somewhere in the distance. The fox scurries away the way it came.

Dean’s going to miss the fox.

“Alright. I’ll go pack. We leave at first light.” There are other ways to hide than in a forest.

* * *


	69. A Fork In The Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
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> 
>  
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>  
> 
> Closing in on the end. This chapter is a little different. It's the same 10 minutes depicted twice, but with some key differences. After you've read the chapter, you'll get to decide which choice they'll make, and as such, what kind of people they are. There is a link to an anonymous survey with two options at the bottom of this chapter. Click on it, and cast your vote. The voting will be open until I run out of patience and go on to write the end, and once that happens, there's no going back. 
> 
> Don't let me down! ;)

* * *

# A Fork In The Road

(3 years, 8 months) 2 years, 11 months

Dean’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel along with the music. Feels good to be back on the road. Mavis’ crate is secured in the backseat and he’s sleeping inside of it. If he starts getting restless he’ll get to ride up front in Nick’s lap. It’s unsafe, but fuck it. Although, the older he’d gotten the more had he seemed to prefer to sleep in his crate during car rides, so it’s all good.

The song tunes out and the next one starts. It’s White Wedding by Billy Idol. Dean smirks, throws a look at Nick who meets his gaze and answers with a smile of his own. Dean looks back at the road but drops his hand to rest between their seats. Nick takes it and laces their fingers together. Nick sings along with their wedding song under his breath and Dean’s chest clenches with something warm and content. They’re armed to the teeth, got all their stuff in the trunk except for two bags with the bare necessities, beside the crate in the backseat. If everything goes to shit they’ll grab those and Mavis and make a run for it. The car is a piece of junk, also easily abandoned. They’re all set for a life on the run.

A police car drove past them a couple of miles earlier. When the patrol car passed them Dean met the gaze of the cop in the passenger seat and gave him a smile and a friendly nod. He’s driving conscientiously and the car hasn’t been connected to them yet, so supposedly they’ve got nothing to fear.

By coincidence, they were mentioned on the news on the TV in the diner where they ate their lunch. It’s the first time they’ve heard an actual broadcast since they holed up in the cabin. It was nothing but a short parenthesis, saying that Michael and Lucifer Williams still haven’t been found and that Lucifer’s suspected of travelling in the company of an unidentified man. Marlon Williams has raised the reward to a 100.000 dollar. It’s only a matter of time before somebody realises that there are photos of Nick from the ball and they start using them instead of the decade old one. Dean doesn’t get why they haven’t already. It’s also a matter of time before his own face will be shown side by side with Nick’s on the screen. But for now only those with the keenest eyes will recognise the lumberjack with light brown hair sitting beside him, as Nick.

“Fuck, I’ve missed driving. We’ve been on the road for ten hours and it feels fucking good,” Dean purrs. They’ve stopped a couple of times to eat, walk Mavis, and stretch their legs.

“Mh. I’d forgotten how stiff one gets, but I agree. Have you a goal with where we’re going?”

“Nah. Just picking roads with nice views. Figured we find some shabby roadside motel in the evening.”

“Fair enough. So what should we do now?”

Dean shrugs. For a brief moment, he thinks of Mike and wonders… 

But Mike had abandoned Nick just like Sam had abandoned Dean. Loyalty is the key, and Mike had none. He’s tired of chasing after people who only hurt him or want nothing to do with him. “I dunno. Either pinball around the US, or maybe leave the country altogether? Go to Canada perhaps? Or France. Cas has tried to coax us to come over every time I’ve spoken to him.”

“I’ve told you. I don’t want to―”

“Live in a country where you don’t speak the language. Yeah, yeah. I know. But you can fucking _learn_ the language, asshat.” Dean shakes his head fondly. “How about Morocco? Cas told me he’s recently started doin’ business with people over there and would appreciate our help. You speak Arabic, I speak French, which are both languages used over there. Oh, and best of all, they don’t have an extradition treaty with the US, so once we’re there we can call the feds up and have a chat. Maybe we can get them off our asses if they’re allowed to interrogate us over the phone. Maybe have a video conference?”

Nick makes a sturgeon face. “Not a bad idea. We can look into what’s needed to bring Mave into the country and how we can keep him safe while we’re there.”

Dean nods. He’s quiet for a beat while Nick’s lost in his own thoughts. “Unless you wanna go find Mike,” Dean offers as an afterthought. 

“He left me to die alone. Wherever he’s at, he can handle himself. If he’s in danger, then fuck him. It’s _his_ turn to die alone. It’s you and me now, darling. You’ve never let me down.”

Dean studies Nick’s face. It’s gone hard and cold. There’s a world of hurt behind that angry mask, and they’ve both agreed that Mike’s slate is clean after what they did at the ball. He thinks Nick still worries and wonders. He does too, but the bitter taste lingers. Mike left Nick when he needed him the most, and then he ratted about Buckner. Searching for him would probably produce the same results as finding Sam had done. More hurt and disappointment. 

“Alright. We’ll brainstorm when we stop for the night. Decide where we’ll go next.”

It’s time to close the book on Mike for good. Cas and Gabe will keep searching. They’re the ones with resources and connections. They’ve never been let down by Mike, never been hurt. But he and Nick have a future to chase. It may be fraught with risk and dangers. But what the hell, they’re soldiers. They’ll make do. There are more ways to be happy than a suburban house with a white picket fence. 

Nick squeezes his hand and in the crate Mavis rummages around a bit to find another comfortable position. The future is wide open…

### Or…

# A Fork In The Road

(3 years, 8 months) 2 years, 11 months

Dean’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel along with the music. Feels good to be back on the road. Mavis’ crate is secured in the backseat and he’s sleeping inside of it. 

The song tunes out and the next one begins. It’s White Wedding by Billy Idol. Dean throws a look at Nick who meets his gaze and gives him a little smile. Dean smirks and looks back at the road Despite it all, he’d count himself as a lucky man.

Nick’s been quiet since the diner where they ate their lunch. The TV had been on in the diner and the news broadcast had made a mention of them, saying that Marlon had raised the reward to 100.000 dollars and that Nick’s suspected of travelling with an unidentified man. It’s just a matter of time before Dean’s picture is shown alongside Nick’s. 

Nick quietly sings along with their wedding song. “... _Hey little brother what have you done? Hey little brother who's the only one? I've been away for so long. I've been away for so long. I let you go for so long_ …”

Dean’s heart clenches with affection for his husband. 

But Nick’s singing brother instead of sister and suddenly Dean’s vaguely uncomfortable because Mike’s still missing. He shouldn’t care. Mike ratted out Nick about Buckner. He abandoned Nick when he needed him the most. He got engaged behind Dean’s back. He’s lied and lied and lied.

But the thing they did at the ball was his punishment which means he’s got a clean slate. 

“I can’t stop thinking about him,” Nick says suddenly. “He’s been gone for five fucking _months_. At first, I thought he'd just gone to ground to lick his wounds. But now…”

“So what do you propose we do? Look for him?” Dean inquires with a neutral tone.

“Maybe?” Nick answers uncertainly.

“He betrayed us both,” Dean points out, careful to keep his neutral tone and expression.

“I know. ...So maybe we should leave the search to the feds,” Nick reflects, but it’s hesitant, and he doesn’t look happy about this option.

“The feds are chasing us, which means they’re looking in the wrong direction,” Dean reflects, giving Nick an in to argue for the option the both of them want.

Nick goes for the opening he’s been given. “And just because he betrayed us doesn’t mean we need to stoop to his level. He’s been punished already. That means he’s one of ours again.”

Something deep inside of Dean sags with relief, like he’s been waiting for a reason to go chasing for the answer all along. “Nobody gets left behind.”

“Nobody gets left behind,” Nick agrees and relaxes visibly. They share a warm gaze. “But where do we start? What can we do that the feds can't?” Nick questions, getting a troubled wrinkle between his brows.

“It’s about loyalty, and we're loyal. Your dad presumed it was us and his conviction is misdirecting the feds. So while they’re chasing a red herring, we go back to where we lost track of him and work from there.”

“Back to Long Island, it is,” Nick agrees with a decisive nod. He reaches out and puts his hand on Dean’s thigh. Dean lets go of the steering wheel with one hand and cover Nick’s with his. 

It would be a 33-hour journey through the fastest route from Montana, and they're not going the fastest route. Dean thinks it will take them between five and seven days to get there, giving them plenty of time to plan a strategy. 

Now that he’s finally free to stop denying the feelings Mike’s disappearance causes, they come crawling from the back of the hidden recesses of his mind. Anxiety, fear, longing. There’s a risk they'll find Mike’s remains somewhere and that scares the living shit out of him. There’s also the possibility that they'll find him on a beach somewhere, sipping umbrella drinks with a pretty girl on his lap. If that’s the case they have a beef to settle. Wherever he is, and whatever happened to him, Dean swears they will not rest until they've found him. Even if it takes the rest of their lives. The important part is that they do it together. 

And _finally_ he has a true purpose again…

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~(Repeating the survey link - GO VOTE AT<https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/P78WQZZ>!)~~
> 
>  
> 
> The voting is **closed**! Thank you for voting! I had not anticipated such great response. Searching for Michael won with 64.91% to 35.09% against it. So they will search for Mike. **However** , since the response was so great, I might end up writing an epilogue for those who voted for Ducifer only too. I'm yet undecided on that, but it's leaning in that direction so you'll all get closure. Really, I don't really understand that I've _got_ readers unless you comment. And that had me anticipating, like, 10-20 votes _tops_. Both options overshot that by miles, meaning I've got really dedicated readers. It astounds and inspires me. From the bottom of my heart - Thank you!


	70. Investigating Journalism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who voted! The results are in and thanks to you, they now begin their search for Michael. For all those who wanted a Ducifer only ending, as was my intention to write from the beginning, I will add one last chapter for Ducifer only at the very end. If you don't want to read the Luci/Dean/Mikey end, ignore upcoming chapters and keep an eye at the chapter summaries when I update. I will announce in the summary when said ending is posted, so you can skip this.

* * *

# Investigating Journalism

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 8 months) Dean’s known Nick for 2 years, 11 months

 

“My name is Jason Blackwater and I’m a journalist from the magazine Crime Scene. I’m here to speak with Mrs Bonnevier. I called ahead. She’ll be expecting me.”

The butler gives Dean a neutral once over, taking in the old, worn messenger bag, his knit wine-red cardigan over the checkered shirt, the mustard yellow, narrow jeans, beard, red hair and dark-framed glasses. “If you’ll wait here one moment, sir.”

“Of course,” Dean agrees.

The door closes and Dean adjusts himself in his pants for the umpteenth time. They’re way too tight for his liking. Nick, on the other hand, had found the tightness of the offensive pants delightful. He shifts the messenger bag to his other side then scratches his (fucking itchy!) beard. It grows out reddish so it hadn’t taken much to colour his hair to match. Then Nick had made tiny braids in his hair when it was wet, made him sleep with them, taken them out and - _Voilá!_ he had ridiculous frizz-curls after brushing. He looks like a freak. Or, as Nick puts it―an eccentric journalist. Whatever.

He smooths the frizzy hair back and scolds himself for fidgeting. It had taken them five days to get here and they hadn’t been idle while they travelled, brainstorming ‘til they came up with a plan. They started with where they last saw Mike, which was at the ball. But when they thought harder on it, they realised that they last saw him on pictures in the magazines and that gave them an idea. Because they had left, but other people hadn’t. So they’d taken a closer look at the people in the background of the pictures, and with the help of Cas and Gabe identified a few. 

Their biggest problem was that the people they needed to talk to were those with front row seats, who'd be able to identify them. Not to mention that some of them knew Nick on sight as Marlon’s son.

Hence the crappy disguise. 

Hell, it worked for Clark Kent, so why not for him, right? 

And it had worked this far. That's what led them to Mrs Charlotte Bonnevier―a family friend, according to Nick and Cas. One of the people they'd talked to had taken pictures with his phone. And on several pictures, you could see Bonnevier with her phone up and presumably taking pictures too. 

The butler comes back and lets him in. “Follow me please, sir.” 

The research they’d done on Bonnevier gave two very opposite images. One of a kindly, pious, sixty-year-old widow with puritan views that donated a lot to charity. The other of a decadent and debauched woman. Her husband had died three decades ago and she had never remarried. Dean thinks she may have the key to a breakthrough, but that may be sheer desperation. They’d been talking with one of the gossips Cas had pointed out on the ball. A woman who shared gossip― _any_ gossip―frivolously no matter how outrageous and fabricated it might be. And from what she’d said, Bonnevier might be their prime suspect at this point, with a possible motive that the Williams brothers hadn’t known about. Of course, it may very well all be bullshit too. But they still want her footage of the evening.

The butler leads him through the house. It’s a big house with a lot of 18th-century furniture in mahogany and velvet, thick drapes and golden tassels. They go up a curved staircase and stop by a set of double doors. The butler knocks, then opens the door, announces Dean’s presence and motions him in before leaving Dean, closing the door behind him. 

It’s a gigantic bedroom, easily three times as big as the cabins they'd stayed in. The bed is enormous, with a bed canopy overhead. The windows are covered with blood red velvet drapes and the carpet is so plush his feet sinks into it. There's a makeup table by the wall, and a couch and two armchairs by the windows, with a small round table in the middle. More mahogany, velvet, tassels, and lion's’ feet.

Bonnevier is sitting in one of the armchairs waiting for him. She’s wearing a satin nightgown under an open satin robe. (A suspicious choice of clothing considering she knew he was coming.) She’s a handsome woman but looks older than her sixty years. Her hair is steel grey and tied in a loose knot on top of her head. She's slim and has makeup on, lips a bright pink. “Mr Blackwater. Please, come in. Take a seat.” She motions to the couch beside her.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Dean says with a polite smile and sits down. 

“Please, call me Lotta. So Mr Blackwater. You said you're a journalist?”

“Yes, ma― Lotta. I work for Crime Scene, and we're doing a series of articles on unresolved crimes, trying to solve them.”

“You told me that on the phone. I'm intrigued. What do you want from me?”

“I'm digging into the disappearance of Michael Williams. He was last spotted at the Cinderella ball, and my interviews have led me to believe you may have photos of the occasion that could be of help. I've also heard some rumours about your personal connections to Marlon and Michael Williams. And I'd like to know if there's any truth in those. “ He pushes the glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. They keep slipping down. Nick teases him relentlessly about them.

“I see. First I'd like to establish that I'm not interested in being mentioned anywhere in your article. If it comes out that I've been talking to you, I'll sue you for slander and make sure you lose your job. I'm willing to talk to you _only_ if I can remain anonymous.”

Dean smiles. “That’s not a problem. I promise you I will not reveal my sources.”

Lotta’s lips curl in a small smile and she bends her neck coyly. “In that case, fire away, Mr Blackwater.”

“Thank you.” Dean lifts the strap of his bag over his head, rummages around in the bag and comes up with a recorder. He hits record and places it on the table. “You were at the ball where Michael was last seen?”

“I was, yes.”

“There was a commotion around the Williams family at the ball. Did you see it happen?”

Lotta chuckles. Her gaze is sharp and her smile sly. “Oh yes. It was after the unmasking. I was talking to Marlon when a gorgeous young man suddenly came and tugged Marlon into a hug, then preceded to make _quite_ a scene out of it. It was a rare pleasure to see Marlon so unsettled.”

“I’ve been told he wasn’t very affected.”

“By people who don’t know him like I do. We go way back. Our parents were friends, and I’ve known him since I was a babe in swaddles.” 

That was what Nick had said. Lotta had come to visit often enough, but she and Marlon would seek privacy to talk when she did, so the brothers didn’t know her very well.

“I see. So back to the ball. What happened next?”

Lotta tilts her head back and scrutinises him from under lowered eyelids. “I’m sure you know already. The young man introduced himself as the husband of Marlon’s recalcitrant son Lucifer. His name is Dean Winchester. I don’t know if you’ve talked to anybody who was around back in the days, but about three decades ago, a man named Winchester caused a devastating blow to Marlon’s finances. Dean claimed to be his son. He was exceedingly beautiful, this Dean. You remind me a bit of him.”

Dean bends his head shyly. “Thank you, Lotta. I’ve been told that several times now.”

“It’s the lips that does it. You’re an attractive man, but not nearly as attractive as him. Although, you both share lips that Marlon referred to as ‘like the lips of a sinful woman.’”

“He did?” Dean can barely hide his surprise. 

“Yes. Dean kissed him, you know?” Lotta answers with an amused expression.

“I’m aware. You’ve talked to Mr Williams about Dean? Every other witness has said that Mr Williams has refused to comment about what happened.”

“Yes. Marlon is a dear friend. Or as much of a friend as he lets anyone be. He came here slightly intoxicated the day after and proceeded to rant angrily about what happened. I use the term ‘rant’ loosely. Marlon isn’t a man of exuberant shows of any emotions. But he was very upset. The way he described young Dean made me wonder if one of the most outrageous gossip rags out there are onto something.”

“Which one? Extra or Gossip?”

“You’ve done your homework. Marlon used sentences like ‘the lashes of a doe has no business framing the eyes of a man’. Take a guess which paper I’m referring to.”

“You think there’s truth to their theory about Dean being a scorned lover?”

Lotta chuckles and shakes her head. “No. But I’ve seen Marlon get molested by women throwing themselves at him and he’s brushed it off as minor annoyances. Dean’s kiss rattled him to the core. Makes you wonder…”

“It’s called homophobia,” Dean states with a dry smirk. The horror on Marlon’s face had said it all.

“Perhaps,” Lotta concedes. “But you didn’t see him when he was out of immediate sight like I did. I’ve watched it many times now and I… not that it matters. It’s all speculations and my mind is dirty. I like to imagine the unimaginable. I find the notion of two men together very erotic.”

Dean’s mind stalls. “Whoa, wait. Go back. You’ve watched it _many_ times?”

“Oh yes. Why take photos when you can shoot a video?”

Dean’s getting excited. “Can I see it?”

“No,” she deadpans with amusement.

“Lotta, my magazine is willing to pay for any information that might be helpful to figure out what happened to Michael. Name your price.”

Lotta chuckles darkly and reaches out to pat Dean on the thigh. A bit too high up and lingering too long. “Oh, aren’t you sweet. I'm a very rich woman, Mr Blackwater. You think money will get you anywhere with me? Think again.”

Dean wants to get his hands on that video. He’ll have to rethink his strategy. “Very well. What’s your opinion on the current suspect of Michael’s abduction?” he asks, stalling for time to figure out how to get it. Maybe they can do a break in later and steal her phone? Still, it would be best if they didn’t have to break the law to get her to part with it. 

“You mean Lucifer? Ludicrous. If Lucifer took Michael anywhere it's my utter conviction that Michael went with him by his own free will. Lucifer adores his big brother and the adoration is returned in force. He'd never hurt him. But Lucifer is the most like his father. He's headstrong and resents being forced. When push comes to shove he only takes his own counsel. He might have convinced Michael to disappear with him without notifying the world.”

Dean wants to say that Nick and Marlon are nothing alike. But what does he know? “Tell me about Marlon. What’s he like?” he asks, wanting to guide the conversation to the piece of gossip that had surprised the brothers. 

“He lives by a strict code. He never makes empty promises. Whatever he says, comes to pass. He’s puritan. _So_ manly and resourceful,” Lotta purrs and shifts sinuously in her armchair. She keeps slowly eyeing Dean up and down. Dean can’t decide if it’s because she likes what she sees or if she’s onto him.

“There are rumours. It’s been said that you want to marry him and he's turned you down repeatedly.” None of the brothers had known that. They’d been hard pressed to believe in it, but it would give Lotta a motive.

Lotta sighs dramatically. “Quite true, unfortunately. I decided I wanted to marry him when I was seven. But he’s six years older than me, and I had to wait until I was a woman to catch his interest. Then the harlot came and stole him.” Apparently, to Lotta, this isn’t a secret at all.

“The harlot, meaning his late wife?” Dean wants her to clarify.

Lotta nods. 

“You were dating before that?”

“I wish. No. He was twenty when he met the harlot. I was barely fourteen. Once I started coming into my womanhood I made a move on him. He rejected me, saying I was more like a sister and it would feel like incest. Few things disgust him as much as incest. A ridiculous notion. We're not related. Nor did it ever stop him from looking.”

“Michael is his favourite son,” Dean states.

Lotta draws breath to answer, then stops herself and narrows her eyes. “What are you implying?”

Dean’s surprised at how well she followed his line of thinking on this. “Nothing. I’m looking into this from all directions. And if the rumours are true you may have a motive for holding Michael hostage in exchange for Marlon’s hand in marriage.” It’s a long shot. It would be a stupid move. But you never know with people. A direct confrontation might get a reaction that would hint at the true answer.

Lotta blinks at him then chortles. “I do have a motive, don’t I? Lucky I have a brain that works, stopping me from doing something so preposterous. Marlon is not a man that lets himself be blackmailed. And don’t you think it would be a horrible foundation for a relationship, Mr Blackwater?” She smirks at him, full of amusement.

Dean rubs his neck in embarrassment. “It would. But crimes of passion are rarely ruled by logic. And as I said, we’re looking into all possibilities. Do you think Michael might have left of his own free will? What happened at the ball was humiliating for him. He’s a rich man, and could easily go into hiding.”

“No. I don’t think so, unless he left with Lucifer. Michael would have survived the embarrassment. And frankly, I think he’d be relieved that Toni broke up the engagement. Not everybody knows, but it was a marriage of convenience. Marlon wanted to take over Bevell’s businesses. I’ll tell you what I think, Mr Blackwater. I think you should look into the dealings of Richard Roman. In recent years he’s been expanding into the Williams family’s market. It has caused some friction between them.”

“You think Roman’s behind Michael’s disappearance?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Can you tell me why you think it’s him?”

Lotta chuckles. “No. You’re the investigating journalist. Investigate.”

Dean holds back a nasty retort and gives her a tight smile. 

Lotta tilts her head and studies him for a beat, her eyes narrowing slyly again. She reaches out and puts her hand on his thigh. “You know, Mr Blackwater, I won’t sell you the video. But if you really want to get your hands on it, I have a proposition for you…” Lotta says with a sly smile.

“I’m listening.”

Lotta tells him and he balks.

* * *

“I _hate_ women!” Dean spits into the speaker when Nick picks up.

“Yes, hello to you too, darling,” Luci answers dryly to Dean’s greeting.

“Fuck! I feel so dirty. The fuck is _wrong_ with people?” Dean puts the phone on speaker and attaches it to the holder on the dashboard.

“Okay. You’ve caught my interest. What happened?” Nick indulges him.

Dean isn’t really paying attention to what Nick says as he drives out of the big gates, _away_ from that dirty old hag’s dwelling. “Family friend. Pffhah! That bitch is _obsessed_ with your dad, and he won’t marry her because he’s got brains enough to realise no money in the world is worth putting up with that witch for. I tell you, Nicky, those who say she’s a pious woman are clueless! Oh, she goes to church alright. Pretending to be a good girl for your fucking dad’s sake. But she’s a fucking _trollop_!”

Nick―the fucker―sniggers. “What did she do?”

“Dude, I don’t even want to talk about it. She had video footage of Mike and Marlon, part of it taken after we left and when they were about to leave. She wouldn’t let me buy it with money, but she made another offer. I haven’t watched it yet, but, _man_ , it better be worth it.” The disgust sizzles in every cell in his body.

“She traded it for sex?” Nick asks, not amused anymore. There’s a tightness in his voice that tells Dean that he isn’t all too happy about that thought.

“Oh, she tried. That was her first proposition. In hindsight, I shoulda fucking taken it. But no. I told her I was a married man and I wouldn’t cheat. So we negotiated, and I… _Oh, fuck_. Look, Nick. I’m willing to do just about anything to find Mike. That’s the deal, right? So I figured I got off easy when she asked for a show and some dirty talk.”

“A show?”

“She wanted to watch me jerk off and hear me say certain things while I did it. Didn’t even have to take my clothes off. Sounds like a fucking bargain, doesn’t it? I didn’t think you’d get mad about it. She ain’t no threat and she didn’t get to touch.”

“Agreed. So what’s the problem?” Nick probes, the tightness gone and replaced by confusion. He knows Dean likes having an audience, and as long as nobody else cops a feel, Nick doesn’t have a (huge) problem with people lusting for his husband. “You’re that repulsed by talking dirty about an old woman?”

“Hah! She didn’t want me to talk dirty about _her_. And I. _Don’t. Want. To. Talk. About. It._ I just want to get back to the motel, take a shower, then have you fuck me seven ways to Sunday to erase what I’ve just done.”

“You can’t go back there. Bounty hunters showed up. I had to move.”

“Fuck. You alright?”

“We’re fine. To tell you the truth I’m glad they showed up. I’m bored as hell having to stay out of sight.”

“You’re _bo―_?” Dean cuts himself off when he hears his voice going into a disbelieving falsetto. This isn’t the first time Nick’s been recognised since coming to Long Island. Two more times have they had to make a quick getaway. But this is the first time it’s been bounty hunters, not just ordinary civilians. “So what’s the deal, then? Are they dead? We got some murder charges about to pop up?”

Nick sniggers. “It was tempting, but no. Roughed them up a bit and knocked them out. Left them tied up in our room.”

“And Mave?”

“He’s _fine_ , darling. Quit worrying so much.”

“Fuck you. Where ya at? I’m picking you up.”

* * *


	71. Lasting Damages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
>  **UNSAFE, INSANE, DUBIOUSLY CONSENSUAL** (non-graphical, though)
> 
> Um, and also Dom drop, I suppose?

* * *

# Lasting Damages

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 8 months) Dean’s known Nick for 2 years, 11 months

Dean drops the backpack in the corner of the dilapidated room and goes to sit on the chair. He sits down gingerly, in case the wood is as rotten as the rest of the house seems to be. It creaks a bit under his weight but otherwise holds firm. There’s some furniture scattered in the house. An odd chair here and there, a wooden table, a couch with springs sticking out and stuffing probably filled with mouse nests if Mavis’ reaction to it was anything to go by. There’s a bed but it lacks a mattress, and the floor is covered with dust and debris. The house has been empty for years and the way the staircase creaked made them decide not to try their luck by going upstairs. Nick’s out back digging a latrine and Dean should be finding something to sweep the floors with, or maybe set up their sleeping bags. There’s no working electricity and no running water, but they’ve got several charged power banks, and they’ve bought a shit load of water bottles. There’s still no reward for him, no picture of him on the news, so he's safe when he goes to the store. And that’s…. strange. The more he thinks about it, the stranger it seems. Marlon _knows_ about him. Why isn't he hunted? 

He should be setting up camp in the abandoned house, instead, he removes his glasses and hangs them on his collar, takes up his phone and opens the file Lotta had transferred.

The video starts some ways into the encounter at the ball. Lotta had been standing right beside them, and the camera never leaves Marlon’s face. 

Lotta is obsessed with Marlon. Crazy stalker levels of obsessed. They had never had sex. Marlon hadn’t allowed it. She'd said that his reaction to the kiss made her think that he might be partial towards men. It's a relief to her, since his constant rejection would make sense then. Make sense to _her_. To Dean, Marlon’s continued resistance to marrying her was no mystery at all. What was a mystery was _why_ he was friends with her.

The kiss comes on screen and Dean finds himself rewinding and rewatching in slow motion just like Lotta had done lots of times.

Marlon opens his mouth to speak, Dean leans forward and captures his parted lips just as he blinks. Marlon’s lips purses and relaxes, cushioning Dean’s fucking perfectly.

“The sonnova bitch _did_ reciprocate,” Dean mutters. Most people, when kissed against their will, scrunched up their faces and pulled their lips into a thin line―a nonverbal ‘ _Yuk!_ ’ and ‘ _Don’t touch me!_ ’ Marlon doesn’t do that and Dean’s stumped as to what it means, if it’s important or just of interest to boost his own ego.

Then Marlon’s eyes widen in pure horror. Dean pulls back and disappears off screen, leaving Marlon staring after him in outraged shock, lifting an arm to wipe his mouth with his sleeve. Marlon turns his head in the direction where Mike was standing. Lotta’s obsession prevents Mike from ever coming into view but there’s definitely a silent exchange going on before Marlon has regained his poker face and addresses the crowd. “I’m sure you all enjoyed that show on my expense, so if you don’t mind I’m going to call it a night and leave you all to your gossip now.” He gives them a sardonic smile and walks away, head held high. The camera follows him as he disappears into a room in the back. Once he’s gone Lotta follows, angling the camera down, catching her dress as she walks. As she enters the door Marlon disappeared into she raises the camera again. She’s moving quietly not to be detected. Marlon comes into view. He's standing in the middle of the room. His neck is bent, his expression dazed, and he's touching his parted lips gingerly with the tips of his fingers on one hand. 

Lotta lowers the camera, probably so it’ll look like she's just holding it, not filming. Marlon’s still in view but filmed from a low, tilted angle. “Marlon? Are you alright?” Lotta asks. 

Marlon straightens up and lowers his hand, the dazed expression replaced by stoicism. “I’m perturbed, but quite alright. Where’s Michael?”

“I'm here, father,” Mike says from out of view. 

“Come. We are leaving. We have a lot to discuss,” Marlon imparts. 

Mike comes into view, posture of a shameful dog. “Yes, father. It wasn’t true. Luci didn’t come to m―“

“Not here. Let’s go,” Marlon demands. 

“Yes, father.”

Marlon gives Lotta a little wave then strides towards a door in the back, Michael cowering as he follows. The video cuts out when the door closes behind them.

Dean rewinds and rewatches Marlon’s dazed expression when he touches his lips, all the way until he leaves with Mike. Then he puts his phone in his pocket and gets up to set up camp. 

_Marlon was the last person to be seen with Mike. We need to talk to him._

_But how?_

_If we walk right in he'll sic the cops on us._

_Or will he?_

_Maybe he won't sic ‘em on me. He hasn't so far._

_But how can I look him in the fucking eyes after what Lotta made me do?_

* * *

When Nick comes back Dean has found an old mop, swept the floor with it, and set up camp. He doesn’t tell Nick he’s watched the video. “Where’s Mavis?” he asks instead. 

“Tearing up the couch.”

“Mice?”

“Two dead so far. So can I hear the interrogation with Bonnevier now?” Nick asks impatiently.

“Yeah, sure.” 

They sit down in the corner of the room where Dean’s rolled out their sleeping bags. Dean gets the recorder from his bag and presses play. Nick leans against his shoulder while they listen in silence. When they come to the part where Lotta offers him the video, just after Dean's said “ _I'm listening_ ,” Dean shuts the recording off.

“Hey! I wanted to hear that,” Nick protests with a grin. 

“I stopped recording right after this,” Dean lies. 

“And you’re not going to tell me about it?”

“Baby, please. It felt degrading. Don’t make me. You trust me don’tcha?”

Nick’s impish expression is exchanged for a troubled one. “Sure, darling. You okay?” he asks and strokes red frizz out of Dean’s face.

“‘M fine. I just want to forget about it all, okay? I was thinking you could, um, mark me up later… Distract me?”

An interesting gleam lights up in Nick’s eyes like a flick of a switch. “By mark you up you mean...?” 

“We have no neighbours. No one will hear… make me scream?”

Nick’s pupils widen as he takes in Dean’s pleading expression. “You sure?” he asks hoarsely. “I don’t want to hurt you in a way you don’t want to.” His voice nearly quavers with how much he wants to tear those screams from Dean. It’s an odd combination, Dean thinks. He doesn’t doubt Nick loves him and cares deeply for his well-being. And yet nothing gets Nick off as much as causing pain. It’s growing on Dean. It’s not so much the pain he has a problem with, it’s keeping still and not fighting back. Being inactive is tough and wears on his psyche when they do this. But since he can’t take a shower and get the grimy feeling off himself, pain _could_ wash it off and he’s willing to try. Especially since it’ll distract Nick from further probing about who Lotta wanted him to direct his dirty talk to.

“I'm sure. I want you to wipe every thought from my brain and put me back together again.”

“Anything for you.” Nick kisses him, thoroughly distracted from the recording. 

“Good. What do you think of her theory about Dick Roman?”

“I call bullshit, but I still think I should pay him a visit just to make sure.”

“You think that's smart? Can’t you just call?”

“I need to get out amongst people or I'll get mad. Trust me. Dicky won't call the cops on me.”

Dean’s not convinced. But he doesn’t know Roman that well, and Nick _was_ special forces. “Alright.”

“Have you watched the video yet?”

“No,” Dean lies. He can’t say why he lies about it, though. “Wanna watch it now?” he asks and takes his phone up. 

“Yes.”

They watch it in silence. Nick tenses up when the kiss comes and he downright seethes when he sees Marlon dazedly touch his lips out of public sight. Dean doesn’t comment. His instinct not to tell Nick who Lotta had wanted him to dirty talk, had been right. 

“Your dad was the last person to be seen with Mike. We need to talk to him.”

“ _No._ ” Nick’s tone and expression brook no argument. He looks one step away from patricide. 

“Nicky, be smart about this. He might unknowingly hold the information we need to find Mike. He’s the last person to have seen Mike as far as we know.”

“I'm being smart about it. Dad _will_ have us arrested.”

“Maybe he won't have _me_ arrested. He hasn't made my name public.”

“I said _no_. It’s not up for discussion. Period.”

“Alright, alright. I won’t mention it again.”

* * *

“ _WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU STOPPING???_ ” 

“Because you’re yelling at me to stop!” Nick looks completely distraught but Dean doesn’t care.

“I don’t want no fucking safeword, okay?! I want you to obliterate every last thought in my brain! You can’t fucking stop when you’re fucking succeeding!” Dean’s breath is ragged, his body slick with sweat, he’s aching all over and he’d been so, _so_ fucking close to― he’s not sure to what he was close to, before Nick (the fucking moron) suddenly stopped and shied away like a skittish horse. There was something there, something tangible, just out of grasp and Dean wanted to reach it.

“Dean. That’s not how this works. I can’t―”

“ **Yes you can!** And you fucking will, okay? I want you to give it to me! We’re soldiers. We know there are times we can’t just tap out until we’ve reached the end of the line. I don’t want that option. All I want is - not the face, no lasting damages, and a happy fucking ending. _Capische_?” His skin is burning, blotched and tender. His temper is flaring like a tempest.

Nick looks so fucking torn and Dean doesn’t get why. He likes this shit so what’s the fucking problem? “Dean,” he says, eyes pleading for something Dean is in no state to understand.

“I fucking trust you, okay? Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?” Dean relents with frustration.

Nick swallows before a mask of determination falls over his face. “Fight me. And don’t hold back.”

Dean’s been lying on his stomach, letting Nick work on his back. Instead of answering he rolls around and lets his leg fly in Nick’s direction, aiming a kick on his shoulder. Nick catches it and twists, forcing Dean to roll with the motion. Then he’s on him and the game is on.

This night Dean learns something new about himself. That thing he couldn’t quite grasp when Nick stopped? Euphoria. Complete, mindless euphoria. When pain overshot what he can take and forces him into a mindspace he’d never been before. And wrestling for it? It does the trick. Putting Nick on the defensive, goading anger out of him. _Fuck_ , he’s hot when the warrior in him awakens. This is how the two sides merged―the lions mating and the sadism―into a beautiful, fucking awesome thing that Dean would be willing to do over and over and over. Having Nick subdue him makes all the difference. He could let go of pride and shame and just _be_.

Nick has his own collection of bruises now and their kisses tasted of copper. Dean has also gotten the answer to the unasked question if he could ever take Nick in a fair fight. He can’t. Not without the element of surprise or a huge heap of luck, but that only serves to turn him on. Once Nick had won, Dean would have acquiesced to any demands. And when Nick took him from behind, leaning forward to urgently ask permission to leave scars while pounding his prostate juuust so? ‘ _Make ‘em pretty_ ’ is all Dean can say. Nick digs in his nails to rip the skin and _damn_. Dean comes so hard he fucking blacks out. How’s that even possible?

Dazed and confused Dean wakes up to being tenderly cared for, washed up and all his blemishes rubbed with painkilling ointment. Dean fell back to sleep pretty damned fast after that and slept dreamlessly.

He wakes up to a dark room. Nick’s not by his side but Mavis is snoring lightly in the crook of his elbow. Without moving his head he scans the room to find Nick sitting on the rickety chair, a dark silhouette in the dusky room. He’s smoking. When he lifts his arm to move the cigarette to his mouth, the cherry shakes. The inhale flares the burning cherry enough to reflects glossy stripes on his cheeks.

_His fucking hand is shaking and he’s crying._

He’s barely registered the thought before he’s crawled up and lodged himself between Nick’s legs, wrapping his arms around his naked torso. “Hey, baby, whats’a matter?” he coos softly. “Shit. Did I hurt you too badly?” He reaches up and graces the wet cheek where he knows he landed a blow with his elbow during their struggle. At the time Nick had laughed it off but― 

Nick lets out a choked, bitter laugh. “Did _you_ ―? Darling, are you fucking serious?”

“Ey, I’m not the one crying in the corner here.”

“But you should be. You should get yourself away from me. I’m a freak. A fucking monster! I love you like life itself. Hell, I love you _more_ than that. And still your screams and tears gave me fucking shivers. And not the bad kind. Do you even understand how fucked up that is?” 

“Baby, are you feeling guilty?”

“Shouldn’t I? Maybe I do belong locked up. If I can do what I did to someone I love…”

“Oy. No talking like that.” Dean rises to his feet, grabbing Nick in the bend of his knees and behind his back, groaning under his weight. “Fuck you’re heavy. Shoulda gone for a twink,” he grouses and staggers towards their bedding. “Oy, Mave! Scoot skedaddle!” he orders. Mavis scuttles out of the way as Dean sinks down in the corner with Nick in his lap. Mavis comes to join them as soon as they’re on the sleeping bags again, climbing up in Nick’s lap. 

“Dean.”

“No. We’re gonna have a debriefing. Cuz I’m telling you, Nicky, tonight I had Goddamned revelations and you’re fallin’ apart and we can’t have that. To me, what we did was _awesome_. There can be no question about it. You gave me _exactly_ what I wanted and fucking needed. What if I hadn’t woken up and seen ya? Would you have told me how you’re feeling about it? I know you wouldn’t and _that_ woulda been a dick move on your part. I thought we’ve established that when you keep stuff from me, we fuck up. So gimme a hit on that cig and run your mouth.”

Nick holds out the cigarette to Dean’s mouth so he can take a hit. “You don’t understand, darling. What we did was sick. What _I_ did was sick. You were begging me to stop, crying and trying to get away. But I didn’t because you said ‘ _no safeword_.’ I was fucking _high_ on it! You were so fucking beautiful. I wanted to push you further. I broke the rules. I caused permanent damage.” Nick’s voice is fraught with desperation. It’s too dark to see his face but his tone says it all.

“Broke the rules?” Dean questions, exhaling smoke. He’s petting Nick’s head and running his thumb back and forth over Nick’s knee. Nick’s free hand is scratching Mavis who’s flopped over to show his belly. “What permanent damage?”

“The scratch marks on your back are deep enough to leave permanent scars. And it’s so fucked up, because it crossed my mind that I should have used a knife, because scratch marks are going to sting like a bitch while they heal.”

Dean chuckles. “A’ight. Next time, use a knife.”

“ _Next time_?” Nick utters in bafflement.

“Look. We have different definitions of permanent damage. What I mean is, no broken bones, no brain damage, inner haemorrhages, whatever. As long as you keep away from my face and make the scars pretty I’m fine with it. And you didn’t break the rules. I distinctly remember you asking if you were allowed to leave scars.”

Nick’s quiet, sucking another breath of smoke on the cigarette. He’s still trembling.

“Baby, if you never want to do this again, we won't,” Dean assures him and places a kiss on his temple. “But I liked it. I'd do it again without a moment's hesitation.”

“That was fucking rape and abuse,” Nick mutters. 

“Not even close. Hell, I wouldn’t even compare it to rape fantasy. That'd imply that I fantasised about being taken against my will. Nothing you did was against my will. I love you and trust you like you wouldn’t believe. Wanna hear what it felt like for me?”

“I'd like that, please.”

“Okay then. You know I like rough sex, right? And I've explained that ridiculous thing I feel about lions mating? A guy who is as fierce and, I dunno, as primal as I see myself, can make it feel like I can be a tough guy and still submit without losing face. I love when I can be as aggressive as I want. And I like pain to a degree.”

“We overshot that degree.”

“That's the point. We overshot it by miles and I loved it. Usually you demand of me to be still and take it, and my brain won’t shut off. I keep thinking all the time so I can’t give myself over. Being that passive… I dunno, man. It’s fucking _hard_ and has me struggling. It’s worth the reward of how reverent you are afterwards, but…” Dean shrugs, takes Nick’s hand with the cigarette and moves it to his mouth to take a deep drag on it. Nick’s quiet while he inhales and then lets the smoke out in three smoke rings, invisible in the darkness. “This time though… Holy fuck. After you stopped and you agreed to no safeword and asked me to fight you? ‘S like, you took all the responsibility away from me and let me be an animal. I didn’t have to overthink it. Either you’d subdue me, which you did, or you wouldn’t and we’d still end up fucking. Main point is, I could dump the responsibility on you to see to that neither of us would get more than we could take. And before you protest and say I did get more,” Dean forestalls any protests, “I _did_ take it. I fucking did. Cuz I didn’t have to worry about keeping still or keeping my mouth shut. And while you were at it something happened that fucking blew my mind. Something I search for any time I get high or drink myself shitfaced.”

Nick takes a last drag on the cigarette then kills the glow against the wall and flicks the butt away. He shifts in Dean’s lap, pulling Mavis to his chest and curling into Dean’s hold, nuzzling his chest. It’s pitch black but Dean can feel how intensely Nick’s listening.

He goes on. “My world shrunk down to just you, pain, and pleasure. And it was like the pain… It didn’t feel as bad anymore. Felt like I could take anything and go on forever. And it’s like my whole body became over-sensitised. You know, like your dick feels like after you’ve come. I couldn’t really discern between pain and pleasure anymore. A safeword woulda been useless at that point cuz if you’d asked, I wouldn’t even been able to tell you my fucking _name_. ‘S like I was having an out of body experience while still in my body. You owned me completely.”

“You don’t want to be property,” Nick says softly.

“Yeah, no. Wrong word, I guess. More like, we were one? I had ceased to exist and the only reality that was, was you an’ I an’ what I felt. Fucking euphoria, man, and I don’t think I’d be able to get to that point if we hadn’t done it that way. Not… um. Okay, so the closest I’ve gotten to it before has always been by dissociating. You know, when you put your mind somewhere else and just let something happen to get it over with? The main difference is that this time my mind and my body didn’t separate, but kinda centred instead? Dude, I can’t even put words on it. Time and space just stopped. Am I making any sense to you at all?”

“Subspace,” Nick mutters.

“Say what?”

“Nothing. It’s a kink thing. I’ve read― It doesn’t matter. Yes, darling, you’re making perfect sense. Weren’t you afraid of me?”

“Not even a little. I surrendered to you. You take care of me. I know you do. I trust you with my life and it ain’t just some goddam phrase I say to be romantic. I get if you don’t…” Dean halts and takes a deep breath. He lets it out through his mouth and goes on. “Now that I’m putting words to it, I totally get if you don’t want to do it again. It’s a shitton of responsibility I dump on yer shoulders.”

“I do. I do want to do it again and that scares me. It’s insane. I’m not _sane_.”

Dean grunts and strokes Nick over the head and neck in long soothing strokes. At least Nick’s not trembling. “I don’t give a fuck. You ask me, what we did tonight was less dangerous than downing a handful of who-knows-what pills with half a bottle of Jack. You got off on it and I came so hard I blacked out. I ain’t complaining. I’d expected to feel different now. I’d thought I’d feel worse. Ashamed, maybe? But I feel empowered. Like when I was a kid and went running. I packed my backpack too heavy and ran for miles. When I thought I couldn’t run anymore, I kept pushing. I pushed past my limits ‘til all I knew was exhaustion and death seemed like a valid option if I just got to rest, then I kept running some more. I miss that. I can’t do it anymore because my leg becomes useless. Too much pain. I can’t push myself past that limit anymore. But you did it for me and I’m already gagging for another fix.” He kisses the crown of Nick’s head. This feels good. Taking care of Nick. Trying to piece _him_ back together. Nick took care of everything superficial while he was passed out. The scratch marks on his back have been dressed, bruises and blemishes seen to, sweat cleaned up with wet wipes or wet cloth. He’s sore, aching, throbbing all over but it’s good. It’s all good. “And it’s not like we didn’t know we’re fucked up,” he adds with a smile.

Nick chuckles. “Thank you. For making us talk. I’ve never really come to terms with the enjoyment I get from causing pain. But in the army it didn’t matter. They were enemies and it was my job. I could unleash the monster and revel in it. Snapping necks and cashing checks, mindlessly. It was demanded of me. But with you… where we took it tonight…. We’re a week away from our third year anniversary and you still make my soul sing. I still get butterflies and melt from your smile. I don’t know what to do with the fact that I can enjoy hurting you. I don’t want to. Not… not really.” The tenseness has gone from Nick. He still sounds regretful, but not as crushed.

“You didn’t. It’s that simple. And hey, if resisting you is the key, and you’re afraid it’ll get out of control, then maybe we should restrain me before we start. Then I can resist all I want and you won’t have to go too deeply into self-defense mode or whatever. If you decide you want to do this again, I’m game.”

Nick hums thoughtfully but doesn’t answer. Dean can’t pick up on any acute distress anymore.

Mavis is unsurprisingly the first one to fall asleep. Nick soon follows. His breaths getting deeper and body lax.

Dean wakes up from sunlight straight on his face. Rays are escaping inside from cracks in the murky boards covering the window, making dust motes sparkle like fairy glitter in the air. He’s still leaned against the wall, head rested on the crown of Nick’s head. One of his legs is asleep and he has a crick in his neck. His body is sore, throbbing faintly, and he feels like his muscles are made of jelly. Not to mention how his bladder is about to explode. Nick’s still on his lap, not quite snoring. His arms are wrapped around Mavis, whose tongue is poking out in an adorable, resting blep. Dean’s heart might stop with the burst of pure affection he feels.

Nevertheless…

“Baby? Nick?”

Nick jerks awake with an unintelligible “Wsmt?”

“I need to use the latrine. Badly.”

Mavis raises his head and blinks blearily at them. It takes Nick a moment to process the request, then he puts Mave down and gets to his feet. He helps Dean up while Mavis stretches and yawns. Then he supports Dean outside while Dean’s leg starts to get the blood flowing through it again. “You good, baby?” Dean asks. Mavis trots after them and pees and poops as soon as he comes out. 

“Did you mean all the things you said?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Then I’m fine.”

And so it goes. They’re both sweeter towards each other than usual. Touches are softer, voices lower and more intimate as they go about their day. The whole day is unspokenly devoted to each other and Mavis. It’s good. Great, even. It’s a warm day and Dean doesn’t even bother putting on clothes except for socks and shoes.

By midday, Dean catches sight of his own reflection in a cracked glass window and draws an astounded breath. “Hey, Nicky!”

Nick’s outside heating water over an open fire to make instant noodles. He pokes his head inside. “What is it?”

“A tree. How the fuck did you manage to make a fucking tree while wrestling me under control? This is _awesome_!” Dean marvels and runs his hand over the welts, bite marks, and bruises on his torso.

Nick straight up _blushes_ and gives him a shy smile. “We all have our talents I suppose.”

“And on my back?” Dean can’t get a good view of it, plus the dressing over the scratch marks covers what he can see.

“More wilderness.”

“Huh. Cool.”

“Dinner will be ready in five minutes. Got the water boiling,” Nick informs him and slinks away with a goofy smile on his face.

Dean’s late for dinner, having admired himself too long.

* * *

“Why the fuck do you want to go alone? Are you insane?”

“It’s fucking Dicky for fuck sake. Just fucking trust me, Dean. I need to _do_ something, okay?”

“Yeah, but come on. Why do I have to stay behind? Baltimore is a five-hour drive away from here. Why not drop me off in the area? Let me be close at hand.”

“Dean. I need to do this to feel like I can be a worthy part of the team.” Dean can get that. He’s the one who’s gotten to go out and talk to people while Nick’s been waiting at home. It’s his turn and he doesn’t like it one bit. At least Nick had been close at hand.

The discussion goes on for fifteen minutes but Nick’s mind is made up. There’s no changing it. Although, Nick agrees to colour his hair and beard dark brown. Dean barely recognises him once it’s done.

Nick takes the car and Mavis. Mavis, because Roman has three dogs and Nick’s not the only one in need of getting his social life extended. 

With Nick gone, Dean checks into a motel, takes a shower to wash the colour out of his hair, then shaves his beard off. For the first time in weeks, he likes the face he sees in the mirror. The hours drags by. Nick checks in every hour to keep him from worrying. Once Nick’s with Roman it doesn’t take long for Nick to decide Lotta was wrong about Dick. He promises he'll explain once he gets home and tells Dean he'll stay a couple of days. 

Afterwards, Dean’s left to himself with pressing boredom. 

Cue stupid impulses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I missed you guys! <3


	72. Sizing You Up

* * *

# Sizing You Up

Dean tracks Marlon down in a boxing gym that's nothing more than a converted warehouse. It takes him a while to work up the courage to go inside. This is a stupid idea that Nick explicitly said no to. 

_But Nick’s not here, is he? What he doesn’t know, won't harm him._

He stuffs his gun in the back of his pants and walks into the warehouse. There are training equipment and sandbags, and in the middle of the room, there are two rings. Only one's in use. The place is empty except for the two fighters in the ring. One of them a black man in his early thirties, the other one Marlon, eyes intensely focused and sharp. Marlon’s wearing a mouthguard and a stuffed boxing helmet, shorts and shoes. No shirt. A few silvery hairs thread through the dark hair on his tanned chest and in his happy trail. He’s in a helluva lot better shape than Dean had thought.

None of the fighters pays attention to him. They’re both good. Quick reflexes and hard punches. Marlon is not quite as bouncy, conserving his energy better. But then again, his footwork isn’t as fast. Had this been Thai boxing that included kicks, he'd be in trouble. But it isn't. And then suddenly Marlon gets in a series of quick jabs topped off with a mean left hook. His opponent staggers backwards and crumples to his knees, tries to get up and fails. 

“Looking good there, pops!” Dean hears himself cheer with a cocky smirk as he approaches the ring with as much swagger as he can muster. 

Marlon looks his way, surprise flickers over his face and is gone as quickly as it came. He removes his mouthguard, reaches out a hand to help his opponent to his feet. There’s a brief exchange of words before they separate and he walks up to the rope Dean’s leaning on. “Thank you, Mr Williams.” He grabs the rope at each side of Dean. “I'm surprised you have the guts to show your face here,” he adds. He's winded but shows no sign of hostility apart from the wording. The laser sharp focus he had while fighting is replaced with a pleasant expression, made even more pleasant by the blush of exertion. 

“Why? Is this an invitation only club?”

Marlon smiles closelipped. “Consider yourself invited, Mr Williams. In fact, would you like to join me for a round?” he offers and gestures invitingly towards the ring. The opponent has climbed out of it on the other side and is heading for a door in the far end of the warehouse, presumably the showers.

It thrills Dean to hear Marlon call him Mr Williams and acknowledge his marriage to Nick. He doesn’t want Marlon to know that. He wants him off balance and defensive. This meeting has already derailed from what he expected and planned for. “Thanks, daddy, but I think I'll pass.”

Marlon removes his gloves and the padded helmet and drops them on the floor. “Why not? You’re young and nimble. I'm almost three decades older than you and have already gone a couple of rounds. You can’t lose,” Marlon coaxes. His short hair is matted with sweat. The silver by his temples is turned steel grey and the brown almost black. He smells good, just like Nick and Mike. Dean wishes he didn't notice that. Marlon cups his dog tags, careful not to touch him, and lets them slip over his palm while keeping steady eye contact. His eyes are incredibly blue. Last time they met they'd seemed glacial, icy and cold. Now they were brilliant like the sky on a spring day. “You're an experienced fighter. Why hesitate?”

Dean can’t really say why the action of touching his dog tags makes his pulse jump. It’s a challenge of another kind. The way the tags drape over Marlon’s hand is in no way aggressive like it would have been if he gripped them. If anything, it feels more like he’s acknowledging Dean’s status as a soldier. And yet. “I don’t want to hurt you, papa.”

“Nor I you, son. I just see an opportunity for a bonding experience with my son in law.” Marlon’s defusing the attack by playing along.

_Son._

Part of Dean wants to push away and hiss, or fold to hear it again. Now _that_ comes as a surprise.

_There’s some major Freudian shit at work._

Dean smiles a cheeky smile. “Ain’t the kind of fighting I'm good at, papa,” he answers and runs a finger over Marlon’s defined knuckles where one of his hands grips the rope. There’s no way Marlon can follow that line of thinking. Marlon’s a boxer who boxes with gloves. It protects the knuckles. Dean and Nick’s knuckles have been broken so many times they've flattened. It makes a difference. Without gloves, Marlon might be able to hit with more strength than Dean, but it'll take just a few hits for him to break his knuckles and severely disable his own capacity to hit without causing himself crippling pain. Dean’s sized him up and concluded that he’s got a good chance of winning. 

In a boxing ring with preset rules? Not so much.

Marlon’s arm twitches at the touch but he doesn’t withdraw straight away. “No? I've taught all my sons the basics of boxing and I offer to teach you too. But I can see this isn’t the time. So, what can I do for you, son?”

“I dunno, daddy. Maybe I just couldn't wait to thanksgiving to get to know you better?” Dean answers with a shit eating grin. 

It’s _not_ what he planned to say. 

He hasn't really planned anything, which in hindsight is really fucking stupid. He thinks he blurted what he did, due to Marlon’s ‘bonding with my son in law’ line. He wonders if he’s just inspired or if he’s being led.

Marlon’s lips quirk in a not-quite smile and he withdraws both his hands, discreetly retreating from Dean's touch. “Fair enough. Then let me extend an invitation to join me for a drink at home. I just need to take a shower first, if you don’t mind.”

_‘Fair enough.’ In the same tone as Nick says it._

_‘Lucifer is the most like his father,’ Bonnevier had said..._

_Jesus, it’s just an expression. Don’t make a hen out of a feather. Your nerves are messing with your head. Get a grip!_

“Boys night in, huh?” Dean says and wiggles his eyebrows. “Sounds good, pops.” He wonders if it's a trap.

There’s a tiny flicker of surprise in Marlon’s face. “Excellent. Wait here. I'll be back shortly. “

“Got it.” Dean winks at him. 

Marlon nods and climbs out of the ring. He picks up his equipment and walks away towards the door his opponent left through. He opens it and turns his head to look at Dean once more before going inside. 

_It’s definitely a trap._

_Fuck it._

As soon as he's left Dean calls Nick. Nick picks up on the second ring. “Hey, babe. How's it going?”

Nick chuckles. Dean can hear barking and Dick’s laughter in the background. “It’s going well. Right now we're watching our derpy dogs play.”

“Good. Hey, listen, I've gotten a room at Blue Lotus, under the name Maximilian Loeb. I've had a good, long shower, eaten, and I'm gonna call it a night,” Dean lies.

“Fair enough. We'll talk in the morning. Sleep tight.”

“Thanks. You too. And don’t hesitate to call me if something should happen, alright?”

“I won’t.” There’s an affectionate smile carrying in Nick’s voice. “Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Dean hangs up and pockets his phone, then heads for the door Marlon disappeared through. Like hell he’s going to just stand around and wait while Marlon’s calling the cops. When he reaches it he meets the opponent coming out. They trade a curt nod and Dean slinks inside. He’s half expecting to find Marlon on the phone with the police. Instead, he's met with a clean locker room and the sound of a running shower. The lockers are big and have sturdy locks, each marked with surnames. He spots the one marked ‘Williams’ and continues on into the shower room. It’s also clean, with big, tiled shower stalls. Marlon’s in the last one, eyes closed as he washes shampoo out of his hair. By the look of it, the water pressure is fantastic. 

Dean’s torn between looking away (because _damn!_ He's not supposed to appreciate the sight like he does.) and staring unabashedly to invade space and unsettle.

He leans against the wall outside of Marlon’s stall, hands behind his back, and ankles crossed in a nonchalant pose. The gun digs into his scratch marks, almost making him flinch. “Awesome water pressure,” he remarks. 

Marlon startles and opens his eyes. For a fraction of a second, there's fear showing in his eyes. It’s gone as soon as it came, but it’s reassuring. “Not as good as at home, but more than passable,” he concedes and rubs water out of his eyes. He finishes washing off as if he’s unbothered by Dean’s scrutiny, but his body’s tense. He shuts the water off and points to a towel hanging on the wall not far from Dean. “Would you be so kind and hand me my towel?”

Dean takes it at holds it towards him, but keeps it too close, forcing him to come get it.

Marlon’s expression doesn’t give anything away. When he reaches for it Dean moves it towards himself. Marlon comes inside his space, locks gaze with him and reaches for the towel again. Dean smirks. He’s tempted to snatch it away or hold it out of reach. It would be a stupid move and achieve nothing. Yes, this is a test of boundaries, but taking it further would be forcing a conflict. This is bad enough. Forcing the other man to come this close naked and wet, showing vulnerability. 

‘ _Imagine what he’d do to you, Mr Blackwater. He’s strong, tall and forceful. He’d make you beg for it._ beg _for it, Mr. Blackwater._ ’ 

Lotta’s words ring in Dean’s ears.

Masturbating while thinking of someone else than his partner had never been a problem for his conscience. It’s never been shameful. Nor has he felt ashamed to put on a show and flaunt himself. But Marlon was **The Enemy** ™ and he’d failed to dissociate the fantasy he used to masturbate to, from the one Lotta presented him with. The guilt had settled heavily on his shoulders and made him angry. He felt dirty. A traitor to Nick. This is the man who had made a real relationship with Mike impossible, who had broken Nick’s heart by separating him from Mike, who had put the feds on Nick’s trail, threatening incarceration...

Sex is supposed to be Dean’s weapon to make Marlon uncomfortable, not the other way around. He fucking hates Lotta for making the blade two-edged.

He hands the towel over and smiles innocently. “Here ya go, papa.” 

Marlon gives him a tight smile and inclines his head. “Thank you,” he says as if he hadn’t noted the hostile tease from Dean’s behalf. He steps away and wraps the towel around his waist.

Dean had expected Marlon to be much more aggressive and forceful in his interaction now that they’re out of public view. The passivity confuses him.

_Maybe he’s doing the same thing as he did in the ring? Preserving his energy._ ’

‘ _You won’t know he’s got you by the balls until he starts squeezing,_ ’ Nick had said.

Maybe it’s time to really examine everything he's heard about the man. Because it might not mean what he thought it meant.

He follows Marlon into the locker room, sits down on a bench in a corner of the room and leans his back against the wall. He pulls one leg up on the bench, knee bent, and rests his elbow on it. He stretches his other leg on the floor and ogles Marlon shamelessly while the older man towels off. Marlon appears to be unaffected except for a tint of pink blooming on his cheeks. Dean wants a greater effect than that.

“Gotta admit, pops, you were not what I expected.”

“Oh?” Marlon answers with his back turned.

“Yeah. From what I'd heard about you, I'd expected you to look like Mr Burns from the Simpsons. But, _damn_ , man, you’re a prime DILF,” Dean says with a leer.

Marlon halts his movements and turns his head to look at Dean for a beat. “Crude. But still a compliment, I suppose,” he says and goes back to towelling his hair dry. Dean can’t see his face, but a blush spreads down his neck and between his shoulder blades.

Dean smirks. He thinks he's starting to get Marlon a bit. The man has a talent for ignoring the elephant in the room without denying it's there. It takes some backbone to act unfazed while you're naked in front of a (presumed) hostile, fully clothed person. Even if you're an exhibitionist like Dean.

Dean shifts, reaches behind himself to move his gun from the back of his pant’s waistband to the front. He settles back again, more comfortable now that the gun's not pushing at the stinging scratch marks. 

Marlon takes the towel from his head, throws a glance Dean’s way and sucks in a startled breath. The glance turns into a steady, wary gaze as he drops the towel on the bench and reaches into his locker for underwear. “You, uh… you got a concealed carry permit for that thing.” His voice is carefully neutral. 

“If you can see it, it ain’t concealed, now is it?”

Marlon huffs an amused sound and pulls on a pair of navy boxer briefs. His eyes remain wary. “Fair enough.”

“You shoot?”

“I loathe firearms outside of hunting.”

“Yeah, better to shoot at unsuspecting, innocent animals that don't shoot back,” Dean answers sarcastically with a smirk. 

Marlon pulls on a white wifebeater and scoffs. “I want to honour my kills by eating them. You can see why that might be _problematic_ in that,” he gestures towards Dean’s gun, “setting,” he points out dryly, raises an eyebrow, and curls his lip in a lopsided half amused, half disgusted smirk. 

Dean chuckles. “I dunno, papa. I've heard it tastes like chicken.”

Marlon huffs in amusement again and turns towards Dean with a crooked smirk while buttoning up a baby blue shirt that brings forth the icy blue colour of his eyes. “The generic answer for any strange meat. But I've always imagined it tastes more like veal.” He seems to have come to terms with Dean’s gun now. He no longer appears wary. Dean thinks he still is, but it’s hidden.

Dean grins. “Oh yeah? You imagine it often?”

“Oh, for sure. Five times a day, at least.” There’s a cheeky glint in Marlon’s eyes that makes Dean hate himself a little. It reminds him of Nick, and maybe Cas too. 

Dean chortles. “Well, I eat man meat almost daily and I can tell you, daddy, it's fucking good. 10 out of 10 would recommend.”

“I take it my sons are happy to provide it for you?” Marlon asks dryly, picking up the double meaning with ease.

“Hell yeah. I get enough to choke on it. You should try it sometime,” Dean goads. 

“Not with my sons as providers,” Marlon deadpans. 

Dean laughs. He’s not sure how the feeling went from two alley cats sizing each other up to semi-friendly locker room banter. It’s not to his advantage, he thinks. Or maybe it is. He wants Marlon to tell him about the last time he spoke to Michael, after all. 

This too doesn’t add up with his preconceived image of Marlon. He shows no sign of discomfort when talking about his sons’ sexual behaviour. This far only physical advances and the gun has pushed his buttons. But Cas had moved to fucking France to hide his sexuality, Gabe keeps it out of sight, Mike had been scared shitless of Marlon finding out. Nick’s was the only one who'd outed himself, and even then he'd only been open with people too powerful for Marlon to object to.

“Alright, I’ll give you that. ‘M just sayin’, don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

“If you say so. But I’m not knocking anything,” Marlon says. He’s pulled on socks and faded jeans, and are now rolling up his sleeves.

Dean’s brows twitch into a bemused frown. “Wait. As in, you don’t blow off steam with any of the ladies that offer themselves to ya? Cuz with that booty and all your green, you oughta get them throwing themselves at ya in droves.”

“Quite right. I don’t indulge in acts of the licentious kind.”

“Well, aren’t _you_ righteous. You allergic to fun, or something?”

“Not at all.”

“So you don’t like doing the do?” Dean asks sceptically.

Marlon chuckles and puts on a wrist watch. “Son, you do not come to father eight children unless you enjoy it. It’s more a question of principles, control, and consequences. I’m done. Are you ready to go?”

“I was born ready,” Dean answers and gets to his feet.

“Come then. My car’s parked just outside. Just drive after me and―”

“Sorry, daddy. I came on foot. You wanna take me somewhere, you drive me,” Dean lies with a smile. He doesn’t want Marlon to know what car he’s currently driving. It’s a rental, but it’ll lead to a fake identity Dean’s rather fond of. And he wouldn’t like the feds to get their eyes on it, nor use it to track down Nick.

Marlon inclines his head. “Naturally.”

Marlon’s politeness makes Dean nervous. He wonders if it’s a trap. At least, with Dean in the car, Marlon can’t call the cops without him knowing if he hasn’t already.

* * *


	73. Lying Lover, Truthful Foe?

* * *

# Lying Lover, Truthful Foe?

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 8 months) Dean’s known Nick for 2 years, 11 months

The car ride had been awkward as fuck even with music to fill the silence and some painfully awkward small talk. Marlon had kept eyeing Dean’s gun when he thought Dean wasn’t looking. It made Dean wonder if Marlon thinks he’s going to be shot. It’s an encouraging thought that they both are equally antsy. Now they’ve finally reached the estate.

 

“So this is my home. It’s a bit overly grand for my taste, but it’s been ours for generations, so what can you do?” Marlon gestures vaguely at the big reception hall.

Dean sniffs the air. “So this is what money smells like, eh?” he jokes.

Marlon huffs. “You should know. Michael told me you’d been living with him in his penthouse for the greater part of your relationship.” Dean’s about to respond when Naomi walks into the hall and Marlon forestalls any questions by turning towards her. “Naomi!”

She spots them, eyes going round for a fraction of a second. She quickly collects herself and walks over. “Sir?”

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Marlon hovers a hand over her shoulder and turns towards Dean. “Mr. Williams, this is Naomi Davies. She is my chief of staff and head of security here at home. A very competent woman who’s worked for me for almost four decades now. Naomi, this is Dean Williams, my son in law. He’s married to Luci. I want you to make him feel welcome and at home.” Dean makes note of how Marlon’s hand hovers rather than actually touch Naomi. His hand is close enough to mimic a friendly gesture.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Dean says with a friendly smile and shakes Naomi’s hand.

“Likewise, Mr. Williams.”

“Please, call me Dean.”

“Naomi, have you got any news on the thief yet?” Marlon asks, cutting off the introduction.

Naomi lets go of Dean’s hand and turns towards Marlon. “No. I’m sorry, Sir. Baptisté admitted to taking three bottles of Percival to share with his wife for his birthday, but aside from that I've found nothing.”

Marlon looks troubled. “Percival is well within the price range for my senior staff to have free range to it as you're aware. He didn’t overstep his bounds. I appreciate him being forthcoming though. I presume he's fretting over his job? Give him a cask of Percival, since that seems to be his preference, and tell him he need to worry no more.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“We need to close this down. Fire Ally. Her performance has been mediocre from the start. I'm not paying people solely to be pretty. Let her know why she loses her job, but imply that she was the thief to the rest of the staff. It might embolden the thief to strike again so keep your eyes open and hope it was an anomaly.”

“Yes, Sir. Do you want me to install more security cameras?”

“No. This is a home, not the Truman Show. Show Mr. Williams to my quarters. I need to take care of something.” He turns towards Dean and offers a polite smile. “I'll be with you in a moment. Nature calls.” Then he turns and walks away, not giving Dean a chance to protest. 

“If you’d follow me, Dean,” Naomi bids him and gestures for him to follow. He’s torn between tailing Marlon or following her. Following her wins out.

Naomi walks with a brusque efficiency, leading him up the grand staircase to the second floor. There she whirls on him. “ _What are you doing here, Dean?_ ” she hisses between her teeth.

“I don’t know. We’re trying to find out where Mike is and Marlon is the last person we saw him with.”

“He’s not with you?”

“ _No_. Jeezus. You really believe we’d kidnap him?”

“Oh, dear. Of course not. I thought he and Luci made up and dropped off the map together after the ball debacle. Oh dear, oh dear. He’s really gone?”

“Yeah, he is. When was the last time you saw him?”

“One or two days after the ball.” Naomi reaches into her pocket and comes up with a business card. “Here. Take this. Call me later. I don’t want him seeing us being too familiar.”

“Thanks.” Dean pockets the card. “You think he’s calling the cops on me?” he asks as they start walking again.

“I hope not. I have _no idea_ what he’s up to. I’d never expect him to welcome you in this house. And yet... “ Naomi shrugs. She looks at the gun in his waistband. “You’re not planning to use that, are you?”

“Nah. Only in self-defence if I have to. It’s a precaution.”

“Good. Now come on.” She leads him to a door on the right wing. “This whole wing is Marlon’s,” she explains as she unlocks the door. She had pointed it out the last time Dean was here, but they hadn’t gone inside. It’s a corridor with rooms on one side and window on the other. Naomi stops by the second door and unlocks it. She holds it open for Dean. “Wait in here. I’m sure he’ll be here shortly. He’s not overly comfortable with people having unsupervised access to his belongings.”

“Snooping it is, then. Got it,” he jokes and winks at her as he steps inside.

She huffs in exasperation and leaves him alone in the big room. There are old school leather armchairs, mahogany side tables, a huge Turkish rug, a fireplace, book cases, display cases, bar cabinets, old oil paintings, ashtrays, stuffed animal heads… The place basically looks like the stereotype of how disgustingly rich old men would decorate. Dean wanders around and pokes and prods at everything. Since there are ashtrays around he lights a cigarette to calm his nerves. On each side of the large chamber there are double doors. Dean tries the handle on the one closest to the entrance. It’s unlocked and opens up to another equally large chamber with a pool table, a poker table, and dart targets on the wall. He closes the door and heads towards the other door on the opposite wall. 

“You’ve made yourself at home. Good.”

He doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near call. He turns around and finds Marlon standing in the room, glancing at the cigarette in his hand. Dean blows out some smoke in a short downward puff and gestures towards the room. “You some Hugh Hefner wannabe, or what?”

Marlon’s upper lip curls in a faintly disgusted, lopsided smirk. “My grandfather decorated, I’ve just kept it in repair, giving people what they expect of me when they visit. Would you care for a drink?” He walks to the liquor cabinet and raises an imploring eyebrow towards Dean.

“Sure thing, dad.” Dean notes a twitch by Marlon’s eye as he’s called ‘dad’. It’s with some satisfaction he realises that his continuous provocation has an affect on Marlon.

Marlon takes a crystal decanter, opens it, pours a tumbler then holds it up. “Cognac? Or would you prefer something else? I’m sure I can procure anything you might wish for.”

“Cognac will do.” He really shouldn’t. He’s been sober for months and he’s not sure if drinking will trigger withdrawal tomorrow. But he’s been keeping sober for Mavis’ sake. Mavis and Nick ain’t around so the only person he’s responsible for right now is himself. 

Marlon pours a second tumbler, puts the decanter back and comes over to hand him one of the tumblers. “Here you go.”

Dean makes sure to touch Marlon’s hand when he takes it. Marlon’s arm twitches. He doesn’t seem to like to be touched. By all means, he’s good at not pulling away, hiding his discomfort. “Thanks. So. Thieves, huh?”

“Yes. About six months ago a bottle of wine got stolen from the wine cellar with no sign of a break in,” Marlon confirms and goes to sit in one of the brown leather armchairs. “We’ve moved the bulk of our stock to another place now and changed the lock of the old wine cellar. I'm the only one with a key to it and I only keep the most valuable bottles there.”

“So you fire an innocent girl for a theft she didn’t commit?” Dean sneers and takes a drag on his cigarette. 

“No. I fire her because she's incompetent at her job. We'll imply she’s the thief to state an example. It’s important that people know that actions have consequences. As a leader, you constantly need to prove that you’re capable of making decisions and hold fast by them.”

“All for a bottle of wine?” Dean asks and wanders over to a waist high cabinet to look at a photo on top of it. It’s a picture of the whole family, Nick included. It must have been taken shortly before Nick joined the army, judging by their ages.

“Not just any bottle. My staff has almost free reign to our supplies, with some exceptions. In this case the bottle that disappeared costed over a 100.000 dollars and had been part of Thomas Jefferson's private collection. It’s completely undrinkable, to be sure.”

Dean turns around to give him a bewildered look. “Dude, why would you buy undrinkable wine for a hundred grand?”

“To be used as a gift if I ever need to brown nose someone. It’s a collector's item.”

Dean stares at him with a bemused grimace, then he grins. “And miss a perfectly good opportunity to _actually_ kiss ass?” he jokes. 

“I'm sure you're talented enough at it for some to appreciate your efforts, but not everyone would choose that option,” Marlon deadpans dryly and sips his Cognac. 

Dean leans his ass against the cabinet and raises his glass to his mouth. He hesitates just before tipping it to drink. He peers down in the golden brown liquid and frowns. Marlon watches him intently while he deliberates, raises the glass to drink, stops, lowers it again and goes back to frowning at it. 

“For the love of― !” Marlon snaps irritably when Dean’s repeated his hesitance several times without drinking. He puts down his own drink on a side table, gets up and stalks over to Dean. He snatches the tumbler from Dean's hand, locks gaze with him, and takes a hefty mouthful. He opens his mouth to show the liquid, swallows, and opens his mouth again to show it's truly gone. “If you want something else to drink, from an unopened bottle, just say so. I'm not trying to poison you,” he snipes and hands the glass back. 

Dean hadn’t thought of that. He was pondering the wisdom of drinking alcohol in the first place. But now that Marlon mentioned it... “Maybe not. But you could be sedating me to keep me here until the cops get here.”

Marlon looks so fed up it’s almost funny. “And pray tell, _why_ would the police show up here?” he asks and raises an eyebrow.

“Cuz you called them?” Dean suggests and takes a sip on the cognac. It’s fucking good. Strong and with a myriad of subtle flavours layering each other and queueing up, leaving a great aftertaste. Now this is what money _tastes_ like. He has no idea what brand it is. It’s not a brand Mike used to buy, that’s all he knows.

Marlon puts his hands on each side of Dean on the cabinet, leaning heavily on them and thus coming into Dean’s personal space. He tilts his head to the side as if it suddenly got too heavy, and squints up at him. “Why would I do that, Mr. Williams?”

“I dunno, you tell me.” He takes a drag on his cigarette, keeping a steady eye contact, marvelling at how unnerved he’s by the invasion of _his_ space. It’s like playing some stupid multiplayer game where the opponent is playing the same character as you and use the same weapons.

“I’ve got no beef with you, Dean,” Marlon says and rights his head up. He remains leaned against the cabinet, boxing Dean in, his head slightly lower than Dean’s―trading height advantage for invasiveness.

Dean blows smoke in his face to get him to back up, but Marlon just inhales deeply through his nose. “Lotta Bonnivier told me you do.”

“Doubtfully. She’d have told me if she’d spoken with Dean Winchester Williams.”

“Yeah well. I spoke to her, but she spoke to Jason Blackwater. And she said you came to her home, ranting about me.”

“Did she now…?” Marlon hums. “She isn’t lying. I was quite perturbed by your little performance at the ball. But I’ve had half a year to cool down. You’re forgiven.”

“Bullshit. You hate me,” Dean challenges.

“Why would I do that? I don’t _know_ you.”

“Oh, you just happened to forget I’m a Winchester?” Dean sneers.

Marlon finally straightens with a fed up eyeroll, and turns to walk away from Dean. He goes to sit down in his armchair. “You presume too much, Dean. That’s the curse of life. One can keep in strict control all of one’s life, but if one makes one little slip, that’s what people are going to base their opinion of you on.”

“One little― You mean when you cursed my dad and everyone who ever had anything to do with us Winchesters?”

“Yes.”

“When you beat the shit out of your kids for a fucking year because of what my dad did? You mean _that_ little mistake?” Dean scoffs scornfully. 

Marlon scrutinizes him and takes a sip of his Cognac. “Yes.”

“Hate to break it to ya, but that ain’t a _little_ mistake. And for fucking money. It’s disgusting.”

“Naturally, because I'm a rich man I'm the default bad guy,” Marlon says sarcastically. “Money _has_ to be the reason. It couldn't _possibly_ be another reason I lost control.”

“Why else?” Dean asks skeptically and taps out ashes in a nearby ashtray. 

Marlon takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Instead of answering Dean's question he backtracks. “Let’s get one thing straight, I don’t owe anyone less fortunate _anything_. Being born in my position―in my children's position―comes with a multitude of responsibilities and requires sacrifices. We _deserve_ the privilege we have.” He shakes his head in discontent. “What your father did never threatened our personal well being, but it caused me to fail one of my responsibilities. I lost control and couldn't handle it. The consequences of John's negligence kept hitting for a full year, and it tore at me. I was powerless to stop it and I, as you apparently know, didn’t handle it well. I wasn’t informed of Mary’s demise until after the damage was done. John should have told us what happened. And he should have told us he couldn't handle his assignment once he felt himself slipping. He didn’t. Instead he squandered our money like a junkie with a gambling addiction in Vegas. In the time span of two weeks he'd lost everything in his charge and driven several clients to bankruptcy. I loathe him for it. But you were eight and Sam four. I've had a quarter of a century to cool down and admit to myself that you two are as victimised by his negligence as I was. I don’t hate you.”

“Still. It’s only money,” Dean challenges and takes another drag on his cigarette. 

“Don’t feign stupidity like you did at the ball, Dean. I know my sons would have lost interest in you, if exceptional beauty was your only virtue. Family don't end with blood. You’re not my first choice to invite to be a family member. But the decision wasn't mine, so you're family whether I want it or not. It’s time for you to step up to the responsibility of carrying the Williams name. What your father did… Seven people lost their lives as a direct consequence of his actions. Maybe more but I stopped keeping track. Countless lost their homes. All because of John. That my spoiled, bratty kids had to deal with some upheaval doesn’t even register on the scale of importance.”

“How?”

“Now you're asking the right question. At the time we employed about 300.000 people in the US. We had to cut that down by two thirds. Not only did 200.000 people lose their jobs. They and their families lost their medical and dental insurance. My businesses collapsing, and the high unemployment in towns and cities they were located in, led to less spending power in the area, bringing unrelated business to bankruptcy too. A societal game of dominoes, if you will.”

“Huh. Hope you learned not to put all your eggs in one basket after that.”

“I did. And I've repaired the damage. Today we employ roughly half a million people in America alone. But you should be aware that everything we do in the public eye can have unforeseen consequences.”

“Like losing Bevells’ business.”

Marlon chuckles. “Yes. Luckily she got married to Balthazar Sebastián last week.”

“Ba―“ Dean’s mouth snaps shut. He raises his glass to sip before he can say something he shouldn’t. 

Marlon smirks. “Yes, Balt, Castiel’s longtime lover and life partner. Seems my son deigned fit to use my idea to take over. Only his chess piece was much more willing to be played. Don’t look at me like that. I know Cas is gay. I'm not bothered by it. I was never bothered by their preferences. Only how they acted in the eye of the public. If you are going to challenge the unspoken rules of society, it has to be worth it for other people than just yourself.”

“That’s why you never said anything when Nick brought his boyfriends to church. They were powerful enough to be worth the challenge…”

“Precisely.”

“You have a don't ask, don’t tell policy within the family,” Dean realises.

“Something like that. They’re welcome to discuss the matter with me in private, like we are now. Deniability is key. I don’t have to address a matter if nobody knows I know about it. Otherwise, I have to make executive decisions that are in line with the policies I pretend to endorse.”

It makes sense to Dean. Never question or disobey your superior in front of others. Choose a route and follow it to the end of the line. No doubt and no hesitation. If this was true…

John Winchester had been cruel and negligent towards him, but if there's one thing John needs to be credited for, it was how he took Dean coming out to him. In a fit of anxious rebellion Dean had brought his boyfriend, Patrick, home. John had been playing solitaire with a deck of cards in the kitchen when Dean introduced Patrick, holding hands with him. John had asked if Patrick played cards and they'd ended up playing poker. That’s that. John didn’t even raise an eyebrow when they kissed in front of him. Out of all coming out stories Dean’s heard, John was the most chill about it. Other parents had been horrible or supporting, but John was the only one who'd treated it like it didn’t make a difference either way―like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Dean reminds himself that the Williams kids are _afraid_ Marlon will find out, while he squishes his cigarette in the ashtray. 

“This acceptance is bullshit. You stopped Mike from making an honest man out of me, and forced him to get engaged to that fucking breeder.”

“ _That_ can not be laid at my feet. Michael never _told_ me he was in a committed relationship. I wouldn’t be stupid enough to force the duty of a sham marriage on him, had I known. He should have brought it up with me and brought you home for an introduction. I will not lie to you. I’m not thrilled about his heart’s choice. But it’s not your heritage I oppose. It’s your disability to produce grandchildren. Still, that could have been circumvented by using a surrogate mother to bear the children.”

“Oh yeah? And you’d have let him marry me?” Dean asks skeptically.

“I might have. It depends. You’re an intelligent man. I’ve read your files from the military, seen your grades from school. On top of that you have the ability to make decisions under pressure. You did that already when you were eight. I read the police report from the accident. According to it, you took care of your brother, got help, and gave the police a coherent statement of the event. Your records from the military are brilliant. And I still remember the first time we met. You were six. John and you were at my office. I asked you if you were going to go into the family business when you grew up. You said no. You told me you were going to be a soldier. It proves that you’re capable of lifelong commitment and dedication. If you’d been willing to devote that level of commitment to our family and go into our business with all the responsibility that entails? Yes. I would have given you my blessing to marry my oldest son, and taken the backlash from the right wing. But _he never asked_.”

Dean swallows dryly. He has no memory of meeting Marlon. It sounds likely, though. Sam was sick a lot, and he’d often follow his dad to clients, not to be in the way at home. Often he had to wait in the car, but not always. He takes a sip of the cognac to win time to process. “So you’d openly endorse a _gay_ marriage,” he stresses. “What does your God think of that?” he challenges and sips his Cognac. 

“There is no God, Dean,” Marlon states easily. “No gods but those we make up for ourselves to worship. Whether it be Christ, Thor, Neptune, or... a human demi god with a gaze of gold-flecked jade, and beauty so entrancing the sun kisses jealous marks of worship onto his skin, that lasts in the deepest of winter gloom.” Marlon’s gaze is pointed and intent as he watches Dean and takes a sip of his cognac.

Dean feels his cheeks heat up from the poetic description of himself. He smirks loftily in self defense, trying to convince Marlon that fucking poetry has no effect on him. “Lotta did say you have the hots for me,” he mocks and waggles his eyebrows.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I’m not. You were. Lashes of a doe? Lips of a sinful woman? The words you’re searching for are _cocksucking_ lips.”

“No need to be vulgar.”

“Ey. Just stating a fact.”

Marlon grunts. His cheeks take a pinker tint. “Fair enough. But don’t presume that I want physical closeness to you, just because I can recognise divine beauty when I see it.”

“It’s not my looks that made you want me. It’s the kiss that fucked you over,” Dean states confidently.

“You’re deluding yourself, Dean. I was merely perturbed by that. Nothing more.” Marlon looks convincingly uninterested.

Dean gives him a shiteating grin, feeling more confident in the face of Marlon’s denial. “You keep telling yourself that, daddy. But I’ve seen video evidence of the opposite. Lotta taped you when you were in that back room. You want _more_ of where that came from.”

Marlon’s cheeks turns a darker shade of pink when he’s called out on his lie. He takes a sip from his glass and gets up, bringing his glass with him as he approaches Dean with a cavalier expression. “What I _want_ will never be of any importance. What I’d like to know is what you had to _do_ to get your hands on that video. Did you whore yourself out to that degenerate, old hag, hm? Did you let her sully you with those flesh-hungry hands of hers?” He puts his glass down beside Dean on the cabinet, supports himself with his hands on either side of Dean once again, and leans in, intimidatingly close. This time with a condescending sneer on his face. “How far did you fall? How did you feel inside, with her disgusting hands and mouth all over your skin while you fucked her?”

“I didn’t let her touch me.”

“Don’t play games with me. I know the only currency she'd accept from a young man like yourself, is your body.”

“Fuck you. It’s none of your business.” 

Marlon smirks, gaze cold and expression smug.

_Fucker thinks I'm lying._

“I didn’t let her touch. I let her _watch_.” 

Marlon raises an eyebrow, prompting Dean to elaborate.

“She’s obsessed with you. You know that right? And she finds the notion of two men very erotic.” Dean takes the little recorder from his pocket. For a beat Marlon looks downright afraid, until he realises it’s not recording.

_Yeah, no. This is a conversation I don’t want to be recorded either._

Dean fast forwards a little bit and hits play. The sound of him jerking off fills the room.

_”Imagine what he’d do to you, Mr. Blackwater. He’s strong, tall and forceful. He’d make you beg for it._ beg _for it, Mr. Blackwater.”_

_”Marlon, please…”_

_”Good. Keep talking, Mr. Blackwater. Tell him what you want.”_

_Dean moans. “Fuck! Marlon, please! Let me taste ya. I want your dick in my mouth so bad, Sir…”_

Marlon no longer looks condescending. His lips are parted and his pupils widen with every strained, breathy plea and description spilling from Dean’s lips on the recording. If there ever was a doubt as to whether Marlon had the hots for him or not, it’s _gone_.

“See? You _do_ want me. Is this why you haven't made the feds go after me too?”

“You’ve done nothing wrong…”

“How about aiding and abetting a wanted criminal?” The distance between their faces gets closer, voices lowering. 

“I see no fault in protecting your loved ones at any cost…”

“Sexual harassment?” Dean suggests, voice embarrassing rough and heart pounding in his throat. 

“It was just a kiss…” Marlon answers, barely over a whisper. His breath tickles Dean’s chin.   
The recording plays on. “ _Sir,_ pleeease! _Come on and just give it to me!_ ”

Dean licks his lips. The moment is as tense as a rubber band stretched to the max. It _needs_ release. Dean tilts his head slightly and closes the distance. Marlon’s lips are soft and pliant under his. This time there's no doubt as to whether he reciprocates or not. His lips part invitingly, letting Dean in. He follows along without coercion. He tastes sweet from the cognac, and for a man who claims not to indulge in physical gratification, he’s a damn fine kisser, just like his sons. Dean’s stomach does a thrilled flip while an internal scream of panic claws at the inside of his skull. He withdraws an inch. 

A flush has spread down Marlon’s neck, disappearing below his neckline. His pupils are so wide all that’s visible of the iris is a thin, brilliant blue ring―so responsive to so little. His exhale comes out with a shudder. “Stop this tomfoolery. I don’t want you to do this,” he begs unconvincingly.

“Oh yeah? Then why don't you resist me?” There’s something magnetising about Marlon. Something both Nick and Mike share, but it’s multiplied with the powerful presence that seems to be a fundamental part of Marlon’s being. It’s got nothing to do with love or lust. 

Another kiss and this time Marlon chases after when Dean breaks it.

“You’ve got a gun.”

‘ _Deniability is key_.’ Dean’s certain Marlon doesn’t think Dean’s going to threaten him with it. But Naomi can confirm that Dean was armed and it would be his word against Marlon’s if this got out, tipping the scale to Marlon’s advantage with Naomi’s testimony. 

Dean steals another kiss. At least, he thinks he does. It might have been either one of them at this point. He’s got his hands on the cabinet behind him, just like Marlon does. Their mouths are the only thing touching. 

_NO! NO! NO! WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING??? I’M FUCKING CHEATING!!!_

Marlon kisses like an equal. He’s not demanding, but not shy either―it’s a meeting halfway and it’s fucking good, that’s what it is. Except the part where Dean’s anxiety is peaking, dragging guilt along with it.

_I should just stop. Stop! Stopitstopitstopitstopit!_

They’re both breathing roughly when they _finally_ part. Dean flushes with shame for his action. It’s just kissing. They’re not making out. (Although, that wasn’t fucking chaste or brief for that matter.) 

_Why? Why? Why? I’m a fucking idiot!_

Marlon meets his eyes, gaze dazed and lust drunk. “You’ve proved your point and mocked me enough,” he husks, offering an excuse for this fuckup. “I bid you to stop, Dean. Travel any further down this path, and it will no longer be a matter of proving that I too am enchanted by your siren song, but veer into treachery against my son on both our accounts. Or is your marriage nothing but a clever ruse, aimed to shatter Mikey’s heart? I wouldn’t put it past Luci to devise such a retaliation for a perceived slight. If it’s so, I beg of you, please tell me so I can adjust my view of the folly that just transpired, and adapt accordingly. Is it?” 

“No.”

Marlon shifts his hand and puts it over Dean’s, only to press on Dean’s finger, making him squeeze the stop button on the recorder in his hand, stopping the playback of the increasingly filthy dirty talk. “Then choose another role for me. Father figure? I can hardly do worse than John. Polite stranger? Enemy? Anything. Let’s pretend this never happened. If I hadn’t been able to sense your distress, I’d have thought you were prone to cheating. Loyalty is everything.”

There. Something Dean can hold onto, to reel himself in. Anger.

“Like you'd know anything about loyalty? You threw Nick out!” he accuses.

Marlon frowns and removes his hand from Dean’s. “I did no such thing. He left on his own behalf. Never once did he come back to talk to me with the intention of creating peace between us. He knows how to push each button and pull each trigger in me and that's all he ever does. He didn’t want to make the sacrifices, or take the responsibilities that come with being a Williams. He wanted to be free and I let him. I told the world the lies it needed to hear to stop his actions from affecting the rest of the family and our business, and rather than having an adult conversation with me, he _chose to believe the lies._ ”

“So what, he was welcome home at any time, but deluded himself he wasn’t? Is that it?” Dean asks skeptically.

“Precisely.” Marlon straightens up, putting some space between them.

“And disowning him? Threatening to disown anyone that kept in contact with him, was that a lie too?” Dean pockets the recorder and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“No. But that is recent. He did something that threatened to ruin this family, have himself and Michael thrown in jail, cause a scandal that would have ruined his sisters’ lives, and possibly triggered a boycott from both the right _and_ the left wing, that would have caused us to need to let a lot of people go. The threat to disown those that kept in contact is mostly a lie, since the only one of my sons that seems to understand the need for discretion even without personal repercussions, is Castiel. I know both he and Gabe keeps in contact and helps Luci out. I want them to. If I have to feign ignorance to make them play along with the necessary narrative, then so be it.”

“And Mike?”

“Mikey is an exception. He’s proven that he can't be trusted to think beyond his nose where Luci’s concerned.”

“What did they do that was so bad?”

“That’s none of your business.”

_He knows. He fucking knows! But **how**? Did Mike tell him?_

Marlon takes another step back and changes the subject. As responsive as he’d been to Dean’s sexual tease, as quickly has he adapted to a more distant, formal mode. “I must confess, I’m surprised you showed up. I had expected Luci, not you.”

“Yeah, like he’d show up here while the feds are looking for him.”

“This is the safest place for any of my children,” Marlon states easily, takes his drink and wanders back to his armchair again. “No law enforcement is going to look for them here. I’m not going to call the cops on him. Contrary to what you might believe, I don’t want him harmed in any way. I love my son, Dean. Wayward as he might be.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “This is bullshit. You talk a good talk, making it sound like you care so fucking much. But I call bull. You’re telling me what I need to hear to achieve whatever you're angling for. You really expect me to believe you care about Nicky? That you've forgiven us Winchesters? Yeah, no. I don’t buy it.”

“Dean. I've been endorsing your brother's political career since he got started. Would I do that if I still held a grudge?” He raises a pointed eyebrow.

“My brother?”

_He knows that too? Mike couldn’t have known Marlon knew, could he? I thought he lied to me because he didn’t want to enrage Marlon. Maybe he lied for his own reasons? Just to keep me firmly in my place. As his fucktoy._

“Sam Moore. I thought you didn’t care much about him since you’re never seen together. But in case you weren’t aware, he’s a politician these days. You _did_ know that, didn’t you?”

So easily given. That information that Mike had denied him.

“Yeah, I know. ‘Course I know,” Dean says, waving it off like it isn’t a sore spot. “That’s not the point. Your kids are afraid of you. To hear them tell it, you were never there when they grew up. So don’t try to tell me you give a shit.”

Marlon bends his neck and presses a thumb and forefinger against his eyelids and exhales tiredly through his nose. He removes his hand, grabs his drink, gulps down what’s left in one swallow, and gets to his feet, glass in hand. He walks over to the liquor cabinet, takes out the carafe and starts pouring himself a new drink. As an afterthought, he halts and holds up the carafe. “Refill?”

Dean leaves his perch and comes over with his empty glass. He lets Marlon refill it. From a distance, Marlon’s face seemed blank, but up close he looks sad.

Marlon finishes pouring his own drink, downs half and refills it again before he starts talking again. “I, uh… I'm never going to win father of the year. I know that. I've made mistakes. Sadly, people define us by the mistakes we make, not by everything we do well and right. That year when John brought several of my companies to a ruin, and I lost control…” Marlon takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His gaze flicks to Dean for a beat then lands on the drink in his own hand. He swirls the liquid in the glass. “My children have no reason to fear me, but they did then. In private I'm always open to negotiation. Always have been. But not that year. My depression manifested as rage and a complete lack of patience. I spent more time at home because I had trouble keeping a straight face at the office. Every day we had to fire more people. It was my first big crisis as a leader and I didn't handle it well. Unlike the big financial crisis of 2008 that we weathered with barely a hiccup. But the Winchester debacle… I'm still dealing with the backlash of it from my children. To this day most of them don't dare to approach me to negotiate if I've decreed something. The exceptions are Castiel and Hannah.” He looks up to lock an earnest gaze with Dean’s. “I love them, Dean. I love all of them. You don’t think I longed to spend more time with them? I sat in stuffy board meetings, and difficult negotiations, wondering what I’d miss that day. The first word? The first steps? The discovery of frogs? But I thought myself locked into my duties.”

Marlon shakes his head and looks out over the room with a faraway gaze. Dean taps out a cigarette out of his pack and lights it. He offers one to Marlon, who declines by mouthing ‘No, thank you’. “You know they had another brother, Raphael?”

“Yeah.” Standing this close again brings familiarity. Marlon keeps his voice low and intimate.

“He died from pneumonia. We got him the best help money could buy and he still died. It felt like getting my heart ripped out. I don’t know how many nights I cried myself to sleep after his death. The boys… they had each other. The four of them were already so close knit they wouldn’t let me in even as children. But I vowed to be a better father. When the girls came, I was much more present. Not nearly as much as I wanted to, but I did better. Got a closer connection despite all my hours working. I’ve done my best to provide for my brood. My wife was always hit by terrible postnatal depressions. She couldn’t stand to look at the babies without feeling resentment. So I hired nannies to love our kids like she couldn’t. Naomi? She started out as a nanny.”

It rings of truth.

It fits into what Nick’s told him about their upbringing. The divide between boys and girls. How spoiled and pampered the girls were. The absent parents… But the Marlon Nick had described hadn’t mourned Raphael.

“You never cried in front of your kids?” Dean asks, sucking in a mouthful of smoke, looking at Marlon with eyebrows raised imploringly and neck slightly bent.

Marlon shakes his head. “No. It’s my job as a father to show my kids that life goes on, and that you can be strong, even when you’re in mourning. I’ve only cried in front of one of my children once, and I doubt it counts as Luci was in a drug induced coma at the time.”

“You mean when he jumped out of his window?”

“No. I mean when he was almost killed in battle. There were all these tubes going into him, and a, a _machine_ was breathing for him. Burns all over his body…” Marlon covers his mouth with his hand, looks away and blinks rapidly.

_He was there? Is he bullshitting me? He was fucking there?_

Dean gives him time. Sucks on his cigarette and waits for the older man to collect himself.

Marlon takes a shuddering breath, sips his cognac, and looks back at Dean. “I thought for sure I was going to lose him then. He’d already given me a scare once. As a teen, he was completely out of control. Drinking, whoring around, doing drugs… I caught him thoroughly wasted, almost delirious. I have no idea what he’d taken but I feared he was heading for the more dangerous substances if he wasn’t already using them. So I tried locking him into his room, grounding him. I hadn’t expected his claustrophobia to…” Marlon takes another sip of his drink, shaking his head to himself. “It’s not like his room is small. I knew he was afraid of getting stuck in small spaces. We had an elevator malfunction in my office building one time when Luci was there. He and I got stuck. He was always the bravest of my kids, so it was jarring to see him have a fully fledged panic attack. I had to sit on the floor and hold him, coaching him through how to breathe properly. I didn’t even think for a moment that he might have a similar reaction in his own room. It’s big, has a nice view. He had books, a television, a Nintendo with lots of games, was fed, had a bathroom and shower of his own. I wanted him to contemplate what he’d done and where that might lead if he kept it up. Had I known he’d risk his life to get out, I never would have done it. Losing one son was painful enough. Then my little Luci boy went and joined the army in a fit of teenage rebellion. So suddenly I had to live with a knot of worry in my belly every day. It was a relief when he was on leave. I knew he took the opportunity to use drugs and whore around, but at least he wasn’t in the line of fire. I bet your father worried about you too.”

“Like hell he did. All he cared about was his booze.”

“Speaking as a father, I’m hard pressed to believe that.” Marlon shrugs. “Lucifer and I were always fighting, but it didn’t mean I love him any less.”

“Yeah? You ever tell him that?”

“Often. My children never lacked spoken confirmation of it.”

“If you care so much, why the hell set the feds on us?”

“Because I want Michael _back_.” Marlon’s voice pitches up slightly, tightly controlled feelings of desperation frustration briefly peeking through the mask. “Luci is a very dangerous man, Dean. That boy has a temper on him and knows no boundaries. If you haven’t been on the wrong side of his fists yet, then you will be. It’s just a matter of time. Trust me. He was bad before he joined the army. Afterwards? Catastrophically worse. Maybe he _should_ be locked up? Maybe I’ve been wrong, protecting him all these years? I don’t know. I just don’t know, Dean.”

Dean blows out a series of smoke rings, each inside the other. There’s a lot of information to process. Some of which might be true. But what parts? All of it? He doesn’t want any of it to be true. He wants to keep seeing Marlon as the big bad. It’s getting increasingly hard since he can see reason behind what’s supposed to be unreasonable actions.

“I wish all of my kids would just _talk_ to me instead of covering things up. If they did, you and Michael could be happily married by now, and you would be part of our business,” Marlon gripes. 

Dean snorts. “Yeah right. What would I do? Be the office stripper to boost morale?”

Marlon tilts his head, gaze soaking in the features of his face. He reaches out to _almost_ touch him, hand hovering so close to his cheekbone he can feel the heat emanating from Marlon’s fingers. It’s the kind of not-quite touch that makes you want to shy away from it or push into it to dispel the discomfort of the intimate invasion of space. Dean, true to his nature, pushes into it. Marlon’s arm twitches as if wanting to withdraw, but his hand remains still, cupping Dean’s cheek. “Somebody did you wrong by making you think your only value lies in your sexual allure, son. You’re so much more than that, or my sons would have lost interest long ago. If what I read about you is true, it wouldn’t take long to train you for an executive job. I'd send you to college, or if that's not the way you learn the best, you'd get to shadow me as my protégé. You’re a Williams now, son. I'm confident you'd be able to mantle the responsibility gallantly and make us proud.”

_This is fucked up. One minute I'm sucking face with him, the next I want to hear him praise me and call me ‘son’. The hell is wrong with me?_

Dean scowls at him. 

_Fuck him for making me like him!_

Marlon holds his gaze for a moment, then suddenly turns to walk to his seat again. 

This time Dean follows and sits down in the armchair opposite to Marlon’s. He taps ashes off in the ashtray on the side table and sips his drink while contemplating where to go from here. It’s been a strange dance since the moment they first interacted. Pushing, pulling, measuring each other up. “Lotta thinks Roman’s behind Mike’s disappearance. She said there's friction between you.” It’s a question even if he doesn’t pose it as such.

Marlon scoffs. “If he is, he’s stupid. Dicky asked for permission to marry Hannah. We've been negotiating her prenuptial for the better part of two years, ever since she confirmed that she wants to marry him. Mikey has been working with him to phase him into our market without having us compete. I don’t trust Dicky’s intentions. Agreeing on a prenuptial that will ensure that he can't scam Hannah out of her part of the Williams wealth has proven difficult. Hence the friction. But Mike’s an ally to him. Dicky is a fiercely intelligent and ambitious man. I doubt he'd make his ally and long time friend go missing. Which brings us to the real reason you're here. What are your demands?”

“Demands?”

“To bring Mikey back to his rightful place. To give him back. What do you demand?”

_He thinks we have him? For real?_

Dean goes with it. “A billion dollars,” he deadpans, trying to be outrageous, testing the limits.

“It’s done.”

“Nah. Just kidding. The fuck would I do with that much money?” Dean chuckles in bemusement. He tries to think of something even more outrageous. “Marry me in a spectacular, public affair.” He only brings it up because they just talked about Hannah’s potential marriage. He wants to hear what Marlon _wouldn’t_ agree to.

“Done. On some conditions.”

“Oh yeah? What conditions?”

“You will divorce Lucifer first. I'm not marrying illegally. Once we’re married you agree to be my spouse in every sense of the word. I'm a strong believer in lifelong partnerships. Such a gesture is a political statement on a grand scale. We'd be representing millions of people and be a positive public symbol for gays. It’d affect the policies of all the companies under my rule. The marriage falls to pieces and we would instead serve to show how degenerate sexually deviants are. You want me to do this, you stick with the decision.”

“You retract the disownment of Nick in public, apologise for false accusations, and let his siblings and others interact with him as they please without repercussions. _And_ you buy him a plant nursery or flower shop or whatever fuck he wants.”

“Fair enough. I can do that.”

_This doesn’t make sense._

_If he agrees to all of this, what would make him say no?_

“Mike and Nick get to live together and you don't pressure them to marry or produce grandchildren.”

Marlon tilts his head and squints at him. “It’s not a good idea, son.”

“Don’t care. Take it or leave it.”

“Fair enough. You make sure Mikey gets back into his leading position at work, and make sure they keep any _illegal_ conduct under lids, then I’ll say yes.”

_He fucking knows what happened! Guess Lotta was wrong about his view of incest. It’s about protecting them and the rest of the family..._

“Nick’s put back in the will and given a spending account so he can live comfortable as he chooses,” Dean pushes.

“Done, and done. Do we have a deal?”

Dean almost says yes.

It’s like being caught up in a bidding war in an auction. Before you know it, you’ve gone way beyond your budget and win the battle for whatevershit you didn’t really want.

The ‘If it sounds too good to be true’-expression doesn’t really apply here. Not if you scrutinize the deal. Yes, Nick would be re-uptaken in the family and in the will. He wouldn’t have to worry about the cops, aside from talking himself out of the suspicion of an old murder. If Nick and Mike could reconcile, they’d be free to pick up where they left off. A public marriage would be humiliating for Marlon (although Dean doesn’t doubt the man would carry his head high through it all, and whether the outrage with his feathers barely ruffled.) and would be a major point for the LGBT community. The Williams enterprises would turn officially pro-gay, Marlon’s kids would be free to marry people of the same sex, since their dad already had. Almost 500.000 American employees would find themselves with the civilian version of ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’-policy lifted.

That thought staggers Dean. He suddenly gets what it truly means to have as much power as Marlon does. The magnitude of the responsibilities. At the same time, any crisis is temporary. If the Williams empire fall, somebody else will swoop in and take the spoils. The average worker wouldn’t see it that way, though, when they lost their jobs.

Since they don’t have Mike, this deal isn’t an option in any way. But what if it was? What if they did have Mike at their disposal?

All it would take is for Dean to agree to bind himself as a consort to Marlon, to death does them part. Which would be a _major_ sacrifice. If it meant Nick and Mike would be happy, then he wouldn’t hesitate for a minute. Marlon is handsome, has a magnetism about him, is a great kisser, offer him a position of importance―a purpose. Nick had urged Dean to stay with Mike so he could keep his brother in his life. ‘ _He used to be my fucking life. There’s no fucking closure to be had. Nobody will ever fill that hole in my heart completely._ ’ If they could reconcile...

It’s sheer luck they don’t actually have Michael or Dean might have agreed, even if his suggestion had been made purely to be outrageous.

When he got married to Nick several people had let him know that Nick’s dreamed of getting married since forever. Nick’s told him that too. If he’d divorce Nick and marry Marlon to fix things, Marlon would be taking another thing from Nick that Nick loved, ruining him further.

_Would he really go so far to get at Nick?_

_I ain’t that special._

_This is fishy as fuck._

It’s time to push Marlon away before he ends up agreeing to something he shouldn’t. Not marriage, but something else. Anything. The last thing he wants to do when Nick comes home is to start a sentence with ‘So, hey. I promised your dad that…’ “For someone who’s had an anti-gay stance all his life, you’re surprisingly chill about the thought of fucking a man for the rest of your life.”

Marlon had been watching him with a steady gaze. Now his cheeks colour and he avert his eyes. “Times are changing. It’s not the same as it was a decade or two ago. I can change with it.”

Dean leaves his seat and saunters up to Marlon. He bends down and grips the armrests to support his weight. “Can you?” Dean smirks. “And what if _I_ want to be the one fucking _you_?” He bares his teeth in a mimicry of a smile.

Marlon turns red in the face but still turns to meet his gaze. He doesn’t say anything. He’s _nearly_ expressionless, but ruins it by swallowing visibly.

Dean leans in closer still, leering, hovering. “What do you say, papa? If we got married, would you go down on all fours and stick your ass in the air for me? Huh? Would you moan like a whore while I had two fingers and my tongue shoved into your asshole?”

Marlon scowls. “No need to be vulgar.” He moves as to push Dean away and get up, but Dean’s faster. He pulls his gun and touches the barrel to the hollow of Marlon’s throat. The older man sinks back into the armchair again and stills, breath becoming heavy and gaze guarded and cold.

The safety’s on. Dean doesn’t put any pressure on the spot where the barrel rests and he has no intention of using the gun. He chuckles. “Yeah, I didn't think so. Thanks for the cognac. Good stuff.” He straightens up, puts the gun back in the hem of his pants and smirks lopsidedly down at Marlon. “This was fun, but time flies. Gotta go. We should do this again sometime, pops.” He winks cheekily, ruffles Marlon’s hair, and turns to leave. “I'll show myself out.”

Marlon’s quiet behind him when he leaves.

* * *


	74. Fact or Fiction?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments and enthusiasm! I'm a little bit swamped at the moment, trying to write and work on commissions at the same time. But it's really exciting to hear your input! <3

* * *

# Fact or Fiction?

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 8 months) Dean’s known Nick for 2 years, 11 months

 

“ _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ ,” Dean tells himself for the umpteenth time, voice muffled in the pillow he’s buried his head in.

Sleep? Who needs it when you can wallow in a guilty conscience instead? 

He'd kissed Nick’s _dad_ , of all idiotic things you could do.

_Since when am I a fucking cheater?_

He’d cheated on Mike with Nick, but that’s different, since he had every intention of leaving Mike afterwards.

_Since tonight, apparently. **Fuck!**_

At 3 AM Nick had sent him a goodnight selfie of himself lying in bed with Mavis curled up on the pillow beside his head. Dean responded with a selfie of himself in bed, smiling sleepily at the camera. He worried the picture would somehow show how guilty he is.

It’s 4:30 AM and he isn’t sleepy at all. 

He flops around and stares at the ceiling. “ _Stop it!_ ” he commands himself in exasperation. “Thinking about it won’t do you much good, asshole,” he mutters.

There’s a cheap plastic clock on the wall. It ticks loudly. Outside, a few cars can be heard passing by. It’s still too early for morning traffic to have gotten started, but cities never sleep.

Dean reaches out and turns on the light. A half empty bottle of cheap whiskey mocks his self-control on the nightstand. He sits up and grabs it. He takes a couple of hefty swallows and almost gags from the burn. It’s not the same as the smooth taste of heavenly Cognac Marlon had offered him.

He gets out of bed, stalks to the bathroom, and pours the remaining content in the toilet. If he’s gonna drink, he’ll stick with good stuff. And for a cause other than denial of reality. At least the Cognac from Marlon had served a diplomatic purpose. He drops the empty bottle in the trashcan and goes to stare at himself in the mirror. He looks a bit red-eyed and tired, but not as wrecked as he feels. “You stop thinking of that kiss, you hear? Pictures, or it didn’t happen,” he tells his reflection, pointing at it.

He’d found out so much tonight. Half of which he didn’t know if it was true or not. If he could just focus on _that_ instead of the kissing fuck up. 

Hell, Marlon had even provided him with an excuse as to why Dean had kissed him. To prove a point and mock him. Dean’s sure Marlon hadn’t actually believed that. Just like he probably hadn’t believed Dean would threaten him with a gun if he refused him. Marlon seems to be a man all about appearance, fitting the narrative as it suits him without using outright lies. (Or maybe lying his ass off? Who the fuck knows?) 

It made it really hard to discern what was true and what wasn’t. On top of that, he'd said stuff that was contradictory. 

“That’s where I start. Fact checking,” he tells his reflection. He turns the tap on, splashes some cold water on his face to clear his head. He’s an idiot. He hadn’t even told Marlon they don’t have Mike. Why hadn’t he? Maybe Marlon would call the chase off if he had. Or maybe not. The more he thinks of the things Marlon had said, and how he’d acted, the more he doubts his own perception of things. Like why had Marlon been kissing so eagerly but fought not to withdraw any time Dean touched him? Why had he twitched, showing discomfort at being called daddy/papa/pops, but offered to take the role as a father figure? Why would he point out he didn’t want Dean in the family, and in the next moment accept to marry him, himself?

And there was something about that wine that nagged at Dean when he managed to _not_ think about the fucking kiss. 

He walks back into the room, gets dressed and proceeds to pace back and forth. He stops, gets his phone and does a quick google search on expensive wines. He finds what he didn’t know what he was looking for. A story about a bottle of 1787 Château Margaux, known as the most expensive bottle _never sold_. All because the bottle broke and the insurance paid out 500 grand.

_A wine as expensive as Marlon’s bottle should have been insured. If it was insured the insurance company would have required proof of it being stolen to cash out. The police would have had to be dragged in to investigate, even if they never caught the culprit. But Marlon put Naomi on investigating. With other words, either the bottle wasn’t insured or never officially reported as stolen._

_Maybe it wasn’t?_

_It disappeared around the same time as Mike. Maybe Mike took it? And that’s why Marlon opted for a private investigation? Or Gabe could have taken it. He seems like a shifty bastard at times._

_Or maybe it was never stolen, to begin with…._

_Is this even important? Stop pursuing things that won’t lead to finding Mike. I’m supposed to fact check, not solve the case of the missing liquor. Who knows? Maybe the only reason Marlon knows it’s undrinkable is because he drank it?_

Dean might not have asked about Mike’s last appearance while he was with Marlon, but he’d asked a lot and gotten to know even more. It’s strange that Marlon had so few questions about him.

 _Or is it? He’d read up on me. Maybe he knew all he wanted already? But shouldn’t he have asked if we have Mike, if Mike is alri― Hold on. …. Why_ didn’t _he ask if Mike is alright? Does he take for granted that Nick would never really harm Mike? Or did he know already that we don’t have him? No, that’s absurd. If he did, he wouldn’t have to ask for our demands. Maybe he simply doesn’t care if Mike’s alright or not, as long as he gets him back alive. Anything after that is a problem to be solved once it comes up, right?_

_Dammit! I can’t pin that fucker down. Dude makes no sense._

_Maybe I’m wasting my time, being stuck on Marlon._

_You know what? It doesn’t matter if this won’t yield any answers about Mike. He’s still my father in law. He’s part of why Nick is who he is. Why all of them are. He is my family too now. I want to know more about him. He’s the closest thing I’ve got to a living father._

_And I kissed him!_

_**NO!** Stop it!_

After screaming internally and regretting his choice to pour the whiskey out, he finds the blister strip of painkillers Nick left him, takes two, grabs his phone and calls Gabe. Gabe’s in another timezone. Maybe he’s awake.

Gabe picks up on the third ring. “Gabriel Williams, speaking.”

“Heya, Gabby. What’s up?”

“Deano! New burner phone? Don’t recognise the number.”

“Yup. Hey, so listen. I need a favour and I have a shitton of questions.”

“Fire away, Bucko.”

“Great. So I need a list of every nurse and doctor that worked when Nicky was still in a coma. I need their names and phone numbers. Can you fix that for me?”

“Sure thing. Hold on, just going to…” Gabe trails off and there’s scraping and slamming in the background. One moment of silence, then tapping on a keyboard. Dean lies down on the bed to wait. “Okay then. Sent the request to my computer elves. I’ll email you the list as soon as I get it.”

“Thanks. So, um… do you love your dad?”

“Yeah. Sure I do. In a distant, please-don’t-notice-me sort of way. Why?”

Dean doesn’t answer the question. “How do you mean, don’t notice me?”

“Oh, you know. Like you love God? You’d rather not want him to know about all the sinning you’re up to, so you worship from a distance. Get what I mean?”

“I think so. Has he ever told you he loves you?”

“Sure he has. Why are you asking?”

“I dunno yet. Just work with me. When he said he loved you, was that an one-off kinda thing?”

“No. He’s said it lots of times. He isn’t exactly a huggy bear, and he’s formal about it, but he says it. Why? Didn’t your dad tell you he loved you?”

“My dad liked to tell me I killed mom,” Dean answers dryly. “Which I didn’t,” he adds. “But he blamed me and it’s a story for another time. Does Marlon know you’re batting for whichever team?”

Gabe lets out a nervous laughter. “Hells no.” 

“You’ve never told him you’re into guys?”

“Nu-uh-uh! I haven't even told the guys I’ve canoodled with. I’m not telling you either.”

Dean chuckles. “So he doesn’t know?”

“Nope.”

“What would happen if he found out?”

“I have no idea and I’m in no hurry to find out.”

“Alright. Does he know you’ve been keeping in contact and helping Nick out?”

“I doubt it. I presume I’d be disowned if he did. Wouldn’t be allowed to see my sisters. Can’t have that unless it’s completely necessary to keep Nick on dry land.”

“Okay. And, um… I heard a rumour that Roman is planning to marry Hannah. Is that true?”

Gabe whistles on an inhale. “Really? Who told you? You mean Dicky? Our Dicky?”

“Yeah. Dick Roman. Don’t remember who said it. Might have been Bonnevier?”

“Far out! I’ve got to call him to see if it’s true. That’d be rad.”

Dean continues asking seemingly out of the blue questions for a while longer before they hang up. Then he calls Cas. Cas has this number already and answers on the first ring. “Hello, Dean.”

“Heya, Cas. I’ve got questions.”

“In that case, I shall do my best to provide the answers you seek.”

“Great. Do you love your father?”

“Yes. If I need to choose between Lucifer and father, I will stay true to my brother. But I do love father. Has a problem come up that makes the choice pertinent?”

“Not yet, no. Um… what’s this I hear about Balt and Bevell?”

Cas chuckles lowly. “I didn’t know you kept track of how she fares?”

“So it’s true?”

“Yes. It was a too good opportunity to pass up on. The woman is worth a fortune and she’s been craving romance. Balt and I faked a public disagreement, then Balt bonded with Bevell over the untrustworthiness of the Williams family. Balt is quite adept at the art of seduction. I and my lawyers devised the prenup they used. After a suitable amount of time, Balt will divorce her and take the ownership of a great part of her businesses with him as he leaves. Just like Mike was en route to do.”

“Huh. And you’re okay with your boyfriend marrying someone else? He’s got to bone her. You know that, right?”

Cas rumbles another pleasant chuckle. “I’m fully aware of what I ask of him, Dean. I’m not jealous. We both frequently have other lovers. I love him dearly, but he’s my friend and business partner first and foremost. I'm confident he'll never betray me. Who he sleeps with is of no importance.”

“Does your dad know you’re gay?”

“No. He thinks I'm in a committed relationship with Meg.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. Father always knows more than he lets on.”

“What would happen if you told him?”

“I'm not sure. Possibly nothing. He'd undoubtedly be disappointed.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s more than enough not to tell him.”

“If we were dating, and I insisted, would you introduce me to him?”

“Yes.”

“Despite me being a Winchester.”

“Yes. If everything went awry, we would have returned to Europe and stayed there. I would have preferred if you didn’t insist. Some of our business partners are very anti-gay, and we would benefit more from keeping the world in the dark. But if you gave me no other choice, I would have brought you to father for an official introduction. He is not impossible.”

“You’re not afraid of coming out to him?”

“No.” Cas’ voice carries a smile. “But it’s not an issue that needs to be addressed.”

“Mike and Gabe seemed afraid.”

“Mh. I believe they harbour misgivings, thinking the reaction would be akin to how it was when… well.”

“When my dad fucked you guys over,” Dean fills in for him.

“Yes. But father is open for conversation and negotiation most of the time, even if he angers. He’s calculating and drives a hard bargain. I would not bring personal matters to him, if it wasn’t strictly necessary. My preferences and love life is not a matter for us to discuss, unless father asks me to commit to a marriage of convenience, as he did Mikey.”

“Dude. Your sexuality isn’t something to negotiate about.”

“Not the existence thereof, no. But whether to showcase myself openly or not, is. What I’m trying to say is, that father should be approached with caution. I do not fear him, but he’s a hard man and you need to pay attention to what he’s saying. He’s prone to double, or triple meanings. I don’t risk divulging personal details unless I have to. The devil’s always in the details with him.”

“So you _do_ fear him.”

“It’s not fear, Dean. He’s got nothing on me that can hurt me. And what he has got would harm him and our businesses if it got out.”

Dean almost makes a comment about how it sure as hell seems like fear with that attitude. He bites his tongue and switches the subject. “Is it true that Dick Roman has asked to marry Hannah?”

“Who told you that?”

“Um… I don’t remember. Perhaps Bonnevier?”

“‘Perhaps’ isn’t good enough for me to discern how reliable the source is, Dean. Hannah has been quite taken with Dick since she was thirteen. To my knowledge, the interest was never returned. But there is a considerable age gap. He was twenty-one when she started pining for him. It’s no wonder he wasn’t interested at the time. I’ve lived in Europe long enough for things to have changed. The age gap is not that big, at their present ages. Please, try to remember who told you. It makes a difference.”

“Um…” _Think fast. Who would he deem a credible source? Come on, who―_

“You spoke with father, didn’t you?”

_Fuck!_

“Dude, Nick would kill me if I did that. He explicitly told me not to.”

“Ah. I see. Then I will not let slip that you spoke to him, when I talk to Luci.” 

“I didn’t speak with him.”

“Of course. What did father say when you didn’t speak to him?” Cas asks, tone amused.

Dean lets out a little half-giggle. “Um, he didn’t tell me that Dick asked for Hannah’s hand in marriage, and that they've been negotiating the prenup for the last two years, ever since she confirmed that she wants to marry him.”

Cas chuckles. “That’s quite a random piece of information he gave you.”

Dean smirks. “Not so random. I told him Bonnevier thought Dick was behind Mike’s disappearance because there's been friction between him and Marlon lately. Marlon explained why there’s friction. He didn’t agree with Bonnevier’s assessment.”

“No. Neither do I. And I believe it's true, under the circumstances father told you. I'd have to get it confirmed by Hannah first. But I think it's safe to assume Dicky will become our brother in law within a reasonable amount of time.”

“ _Reasonable?_ They've been negotiating for _two fucking years_. You call that reasonable?”

“Yes. Hannah’s been waiting for Dicky since she was thirteen. What’s another year or two?”

Dean blinks. He removes the phone from his ear to stare at it like it’s gone mad. Then he shakes himself and puts it back to his ear. “Oookay. Whatever you say, buddy. But wouldn’t Hannah have told you that he proposed? I thought you’re pretty close to your sisters?”

“If I know Hannah, she wouldn’t want to jinx it before everything is worked out. And Dicky would keep it under wraps too. Talking about it like it’s a done deal might make father call the negotiations off.”

Dean has about a million other questions about this, none of which are relevant to his cause. Cas sounds like he thinks it’s perfectly natural to negotiate a prenup for two years. His tone of voice declares confidence in Marlon’s judgement. It’s insane. To understand this, he’d need a lot of detailed information about the family’s distribution of wealth, the girls’ roles in the family, a grasp of Roman’s accumulated assets, and to know what consequences a marriage without a prenup would have. He vows to bring this up with Cas again at a later point. Now he’s fact checking. “Have your father ever told you he loves you?” he asks instead.

“Often.”

“He said he hold no grudges towards me. Do you think it’s true?” Dean continues to rattle off questions before he’s sidetracked again.

“Did he appear to hold a grudge?”

“Not really. He said he’d realised me and my brother were victims of dad’s mental crash just as much as he was.”

“I’m surprised. But it could be true. I’d still be wary, though. You are very dear to both Luci and Mikey, and he might want to secure you as leverage towards them. That’s what I’d do, if I was in his position. And I’m where I am today because I paid attention to what he did, and tried to emulate him.”

“Is he good to the staff? I think Nick told me you used to play at being him and fire maids when you were kids.”

“Father is a stern taskmaster. He’s a perfectionist in whatever he does and demands the same from his employees, especially those who work close to him, or at home. No employee remains employed for long unless they excel. However, he rewards loyalty towards the family, honesty, and hard work. He’s not unreasonable. So yes. If they live up to his demand for quality, then he’s good to them. But he keeps his distance.”

They talk for thirty more minutes. Once they’re interrupted. Cas is apparently in his office and someone comes in with news he isn’t too pleased to receive. That’s about all Dean grasps from the quick smatter of French he hears as Cas rattles off a reprimand and a set of orders, seeming like a completely other man than the soft-spoken, pleasant and forthcoming man Dean’s gotten to know.

It makes him think. The Castiel talking with his employee is different from Castiel talking with his brother in law. The same must apply to Marlon, and he has to remember to account for that distinction. A son will never know a father in the same way a stranger will. The Williams boys can’t give him all the answers he seeks.

After he’s spoken to Castiel it’s after 6 AM. He tries calling Naomi. She’s awake, drinking her morning coffee. She can’t shed as much light as he’d hoped. Mike had been at the estate at least two days after the ball. He’d kept to himself or been cooped up with Marlon. The missing bottle of wine wasn’t reported to the police as stolen. Marlon apparently doesn’t want cops at his home if it can be avoided and as such prefer in-house solutions to in-house problems. 

After Dean’s spoken to her, Gabe has emailed the list of hospital staff working with Nick when he was wounded in battle. He calls them pretending to be a police officer wanting to corroborate an alibi, crossing Marlon off a list of suspects to a crime. The first two are duds, but the third and fourth both remember Marlon and Nick. A doctor and a nurse had both reacted on it being strange that the father that had sat vigil 24/7 suddenly made himself scarce when he was informed that they were going to wake the patient from the drug induced coma. The brothers had shown up after that but the father was not seen again.

Marlon came to Nick when he was fighting for his life and none of the brothers knows.

But why?

By midday Dean’s confirmed most of what Marlon said as true. He checks in with Nick, writhing internally in guilty feelings but faking a smile. He tells Nick he’s spoken to Naomi and that Mike was last seen two days after the ball, but keeps his mouth shut about everything else.

2 PM he’s had a pizza for lunch and is back at his motel room lying on the bed with the phone charging, rested on his chest. He stares at the ceiling, poking at his teeth with his tongue. As far as anyone knows, Marlon is the last person to have seen Mike that he can confirm.

There’s only one thing to do.

Some quick googling finds him the number he needs. He calls, pretending to be an FBI agent. He’s reconnected three times until finally: “You’ve reached Marlon Williams’ office. This is Kate Chadwell speaking. How may I be of service.”

“Hey. I need to speak to Marlon.”

“He's busy right now, Sir. May I take a message?”

“Look, Kate. You tell him right now that there’s an idiot on the phone who wants to speak to _papa_. If he doesn't take the call I'll hang up and I won't ever call back. That’s a promise. But I'll make sure that he finds out that I called here and that you screened my call and by doing so made me decide to quit all further communication with him. That’s a chance you don’t want to take.”

“Who am I speaking to?”

“Marlon will know. Just deliver the message, Kate.”

Kate hesitates for a beat, then “One moment, Sir.”

Dean listens to the crappy music that plays while he’s put on hold. He doesn’t have to wait long before it stops and comes back online.

“The vulgar muse. What a delightful surprise,” Marlon greets, voice smooth and low, hinting at a smile.

“Muse, huh? Do I inspire you, daddy?” Dean taunts. His stomach is churning and flopping with nerves. 

“You do, in fact. But I’m yet to find an outlet to the energy you gave me.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that without resorting to innuendos. 

Marlon saves him the trouble. “So what owes me the pleasure of this call?” he asks.

“Oh, I dunno. Whatcha doin’?” Dean answers in a mock-coy voice.

“Keeping in touch with the ground.”

“Ah. Standing. Gotcha.”

Marlon lets out an amused huff. “Not _quite_. I’m reviewing lower level personnel issues, to remind myself that my decisions have a direct impact on actual lives. I do this from time to time because when you have a view from the top, everyone on the ground are no bigger than ants. I don’t wish to step on them if it isn’t necessary. Besides, I’m heartily tired of board meetings.”

“Lucky thing you’re not a carpenter then, huh?”

Marlon’s silent for a beat then burst out laughing - an open, unrestrained laugh Dean would never have thought to hear from him. He thrills at the sound, both because it’s surprising and because _he_ extracted it. Plus, of course, not everybody appreciates his quirkier humour. “Indeed, son. Indeed.”

“So what are you reviewing at this exact moment?” Dean asks.

“A woman in Berkeley, California, has been working part time for us for six months. According to her manager, she shows a lot of potential and he’d like it if she worked full time. _But_ , she comes in late and leaves early, or calls in sick too often. She has a sick child who is the reason for this behaviour. Since she works only part time, only she is covered by our medical insurance. Despite of this she’s applied for her son to be covered by our insurance too. Allegedly, she can barely afford to pay for his treatment and keep a roof over their head at the same time. The question is whether to grant her this exception and pay for his treatment despite her erratic performance. What would you do?”

“The manager thinks she has potential?”

“Yes. On good days she outperforms her peers with ease.”

“I would grant her the exception. It’s likely that caring for her kid and paying for medicine is the reason she’s late so often or underperform some days. But I’d also give her three months to improve her performance after the insurance has taken effect. If she doesn’t improve her behaviour during this time, I’d fire her. A job is a job, not welfare. I need to rely on my men doing their part all the way down the line, whether they’ve got my back in battle or just keep the supply trucks running or clean the uniforms. You get me?”

There’s a silence where Dean can hear tapping on a keyboard. “Congratulations, son. You just made your first executive decision in the Williams enterprises.”

Something inside of Dean swoops in fear and excitement. “You went with that?”

“No. _You_ did. I just typed down and sent the order. Any regrets now that you know your words held real consequence?”

It’s terrifying. 

But also _awesome_.

“No. Another one?”

Marlon chuckles. Dean can’t discern if it’s a fond or mocking sound. “And to think Michael opted not to involve you in our business. He thought it would bore you. But sure, let’s put that to the test.”

“You spoke with Mike about me after the ball,” Dean states.

“Naturally. As tempting as it is, I don’t put my nose in my sons’ personal lives unless it will affect our business. Your little show at the ball did. So we had a couple of very in depth talks about you. Now, an employee in Arkansas…”

They review several cases. Marlon―if he can be trusted―sends the orders exactly as Dean dictates. Every case is different. Theft, slowing of revenue, an employee too outspoken on Twitter, smaller things and bigger things. Between each case, Dean asks questions of Marlon. According to Marlon, Mike’s last words before his disappearance, was that he was heading to the office and would be back later.

“You know we don’t actually _have_ Mike, don’t ya? So if you could tell the feds they’re looking in the wrong direction, that’d be great.”

Marlon’s chuckle is all but a purr. “Nice try, son. But I know you hold the key to getting Mikey back where he belongs.”

Dean frowns at the way he poses that sentence. What was is Cas had said? ‘The devil’s in the details’. 

“Yeah, well. I’m actually trying to find him. So I guess you’re right about that.”

“Then why don’t you swing by the office? If he did come here, maybe you can find clues that are hidden to me because I don’t know him in the same manner as you do.”

“You’d let me root around in his office?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. I’m coming right over.”

* * *


	75. The Belly of the Beast

* * *

# The Belly of the Beast

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 8 months) Dean’s known Nick for 2 years, 11 months

 

Dean spends a whole fifteen minutes fretting about what clothes to wear. In the end, he goes with one of the posh, tailored suits Cas bought him for blending in with rich folks. He combs his hair (it’s getting longer again) in a neat side part, scrubs his hands as clean as he can get them, and smears some army chapstick on his lips to add some sheen. He adds his cufflinks to the getup, along with fancy shoes, and he’s good to go.

He takes his rental car, drives to the fancy high rise where the Williams Enterprises has its HQ. He parks the car a few blocks away and walks the last bit. He doesn’t want to make it obvious what car he drives, should someone see him coming. At the ground floor reception, a perky blonde greets him. “Mr. Williams. Here’s your visitor badge. Mr. Williams Sr is expecting you,” she says with a pleasant smile and hands over a clip-on badge.

“Thanks, uh,” he throws a glance at her name tag, “Beth. How did you know who I am?”

Her smile widens. “I’ve been provided with a photo, Mr. Williams. If you give me a mom― ah.” She turns her head towards the lobby and raises her hand. “Carmen!” she calls and waves another woman over. “This is Mr. Williams. Mr. Williams Sr is expecting him. Would you show him the way?”

“Naturally. If you’d follow me, Sir?”

“Lead the way, Ma’am.”

Carmen, a shapely, black, middle-aged woman in a business suit, gives him a smile and then leads the way with efficient strides. There’s a _lot_ of people coming and going. They cram together in a big elevator. Dean makes note of how expensive clothing and accessories the people who get in are wearing. He notes at what floors they get off. For the most part, the ones who reeks less of money get off at lower storeys. There are some exceptions, and Dean thinks that those are the people that are ambitious, dressing for the floors they want to end up on, rather than their current ones. There are only a few people left when they reach the top floor. Carmen leads the way through a broad, airy corridor with office doors on both sides. Most doors are closed. At the end of the corridor, she opens a door and shows him in, staying outside herself. Inside there’s a desk with another secretary.

“Kate Chadwell, I presume?” Dean asks when the secretary looks up. “Papa in?”

“Oh. It’s you. Yes, Mr. Williams. You can go right in,” she says and points at a door at the other end of the office/waiting room.

“Thanks, Kate.” Calling people by name is a trick to endear them to you, and to make them open up. Kate gives him a smile and goes back to her computer. He walks towards the door. His pulse starts racing. Once again he’s going into the belly of the beast. Different belly, the same beast. He’s practised this walk. When Cas bought him the suit and their charades started to dig up info on Mike, he had to trade his soldier swagger for a lofty, straight-backed walk. He’d used a book that he’d put on his head to make sure he had the right posture and flowed rather than swayed. It’s hard to walk this way without the suit on, but with it came the right mindset. He hoped Marlon would be impressed.

He opens the door and steps into the big, airy corner office. Glass walls on two sides, just like Mike’s bedroom. The interior is all glass, chrome and mahogany. There’s one large bronze statue of a jaguar in the room. A huge painting of another jaguar, this time a clouded one, on the wall. Dean throws a look from one to the other while he closes the door behind him. “You gonna blame gramps for those too, or are they yours?” he asks in lieu of a greeting.

“They’re all me. The rest is for show.”

Dean turns his head to face Marlon. He’s sitting behind a huge glass desk at the other end of the room. His expression is open and positively surprised as his gaze sweeps over Dean, sizing him up. “I must say, Dean, you clean up surprisingly well,” Marlon says and gets up from his leather seat. He comes around and walks towards Dean. He’s wearing a pinstriped three-piece suit, complete with a pocket watch chain going into his vest pocket. It’s fucking suit porn and Dean would kill to get Nick to wear something like that. 

Dean huffs. “It’s only surprising if you don’t know me.”

“Let’s change that,” Marlon suggests smoothly and holds his hand out for a greeting. 

Dean takes the hand to shake, but despite that Marlon immediately covers his hand with another hand, he keeps his distance. So Dean promptly tugs him in for a hug. “I’m a hugger, pops. You should know that by now,” he teases. “Can’t control me without touch.”

He lets go with a cocky lopsided grin. Pleased to notice that Marlon looks uncomfortable for a beat before the pleasant mask falls over his face again. “No wonder Michael failed to keep you then, trying to have a long-distance relationship.”

“Mhm. But lying his ass off about anything and everything that matters was the real reason it didn’t work out.” There’s music playing in the background and it reminds Dean of something he’s been curious about.

“... _I see a band of angels and they're coming after me, Ain't no grave can hold my body down…_ ” Johnny Cash sings from hidden speakers.

“Hey, papa. Why are your sons named after angels?”

“Two reasons. My wife was very religious. She believed in the fairy tales told at church. The second reason is that, out of all made up creatures, archangels are by far my favourite. Depending on which text you pursue, they’re fierce, beautiful, powerful, and wise.”

“Yeah, but Lucifer? The _Devil_?”

“He’s an angel too. It’s unfortunate that he's treading the path of his namesake. My mind was on Lucifer before the fall when I named him.”

“Castiel isn’t an archangel.”

“True. But Cassiel is. And Castiel is an angel as well. My wife insisted we’d go with Castiel. It was close enough to suit us both. And none of us liked the name Metatron.”

Dean almost asks what a transformer has to do with anything, but catches himself. “Yeah, no. Good call,” he agrees instead.

Marlon hums. “How’s Luci? Is he alright?” he asks.

It’s a sucker punch in Dean’s belly. It wouldn’t have been, except Marlon never asked that about Mike. 

_The fucker knows where Mike is! He’s gotta! Why else would he not ask if Mike’s alright?_

_He could just be afraid the answer is no…. I used to be a master of denial. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t ask. Fuck. I didn’t think of that. I know all about not asking things because I fear the answer._

“Nick’s fine. Worried about Mike, but we all are. Apart from that, he’s great.”

Marlon seems relieved. It’s hard to tell sometimes, due to his minimal facial expressions. Dean might not have known him for long, but with him, you can’t look at the key expression. You need to focus on the small muscles around the eyes, brows, and lips. “Good to hear. Why do you call him Nick and not Luci?”

“He told me he’d kick my ass if I called him Lucifer.”

Marlon frowns. “Still?” He steps a bit closer and tilts his head. “Are you sure your marriage is not a sham, after all?”

“Dude, _no_. What? You think it’s a ruse because I call him _Nicky_?”

“Lucifer has always reserved the right to call him by his name for people he’s very close to.”

Doubt. Too easily seeded. What if Nick’s not considering him as close as he says…?

“ _You_ call him that.”

Marlon snorts, a small smirk hitching the corner of his lips upward. “I changed his diapers, I’ll call him whatever I want,” he says dryly and arches an eyebrow. 

Dean sniggers. “I thought you had people to do that for you?”

“If I had a rare moment to spend with my sons, I didn’t hand them over to other people just because they made a mess, Dean. I’ve been cleaning up Lucifer’s messes ever since he was born. They got bigger as he grew.” Marlon sighs and shakes his head to himself. He gestures towards the chair opposite his by the desk. “Do you want to sit down? Have a drink? I can offer soft drinks, as well, if you want to keep a clear head.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Fair enough. Can I show you around the office building, or do you want to go to Michael’s office right away?”

“Mike’s. We’ll see about a tour once I’m done.”

“As you wish. Come with me.” Marlon hovers a hand shy of touching, just between Dean’s shoulder blades. He gestures towards the door with his other hand. 

Dean being Dean, he leans back the tiny bit needed for Marlon’s hand to connect with his back. He feels the minuscule jerk in Marlon’s hand, as if he wants to withdraw immediately, but the hand stays in place until Dean starts moving and it falls away naturally. “Lead the way, daddy.”

In the waiting room, they meet the secretary coming back in. She’s carrying a thick folder. “Mr. Williams, Sir. I got the Burbank files you requested.”

“Good. Put them on my desk, I’ll deal with them when I get back.” He lifts his hand as he talks and _almost_ gives her a tap on the upper arm like you do when you want to convey that someone did a good job. But again, he never actually touches her. Dean notes how she nearly shies away from the non-touch. It happens quickly and they pass her by and leave the room. 

Dean has a thought. “You know what, papa? I’ve changed my mind. Why don’t you give me a tour? Start with this floor and then the rest. I’ll check Mike’s office later.”

Marlon looks surprised, but smiles. “Fair enough, son. Here we have…” 

Dean’s not really interested in the workplace. That’s not what he’s curious about. Although he does listen and stores away whatever Marlon says. This is the place Mike went to when he was away. Of course, Dean’s a little curious. But he wants to see Marlon interact with people. “So you have a corner office here, and Mike has one. But there are four corners. Who occupies the other two?” he asks as they walk along the top floor. Mike and Marlon’s offices are wall to wall, only a storage room separating them.

“Castiel has one for whenever he comes here. It’s not often, but it’s his nevertheless.”

“And Gabe the fourth?”

Marlon chuckles and leads the way towards the fourth office. “No. If you manage to lure Gabe into this building you deserve an award. Truth is, it’s mine. I’ve got an apartment a few blocks away for overnight stays when I’ve worked too late to drive home, but…” he unlocks the door to the fourth corner office and opens it. Dean peeks inside. It’s not an office at all.

“But you don’t use that apartment very often, huh? This you, or gramps decorating?” he asks and steps inside without waiting to see if he’s allowed. Marlon follows and closes the door behind them. The big room looks like a hotel room, only more personal. Bed, desk, recliner, TV, treadmill, punching bag, and bookcases filled with books. A thick, soft rug, throw pillows and blankets, pretty lamps that both give light and are decorative. Everything has soft, warm, creamy colours―cream, beige, terracotta, offset by turquoise. _Everything_ looks soft, comfortable and inviting. If a room could be described as being decorated like a hug, this is it.

“All me,” Marlon answers. He’s stopped by the door and watches as Dean walks around the room to poke and prod.

There’s an ashtray on the nightstand, and another one on a side table beside the recliner. On said table, Dean also spots a golden Ronson lighter, but the room doesn’t smell of smoke. “You smoke?”

“It happens. Cigars mostly. Ordinary cigarettes rarely.”

“What’s your brand?” Dean asks and takes the lighter to try it out.

“Lucky Strike Click & Roll.”

“Menthol? Huh. I never woulda guessed. And those are pretty cheap. I woulda taken you for an Insignia, or Gold Flake smoker.”

“I don’t smoke cigarettes while in the company of others. Cigars, yes. But not cigarettes.”

Dean almost asks what that’s got to do with anything, but he realises that that has to do with _everything_. What Marlon was really saying, is that if he would smoke in public, he probably would choose something in line with Insignia. It’s all about appearance. Hell, there’s even a cuddly toy on the bed. A snow leopard, big enough to hug while sleeping. “So why tell me?” he asks and walks over to the bed. He flops down on it to test it out. It’s fucking perfect. The mattress is fairly hard, but not _too_ hard. And the comforters are floofy and soft. He kicks off his shoes and crawls up on the bed to try the pillows. Part of him is doing this to provoke and test limits. Another part of him just wants to know who Marlon is.

“I’d like to get to know you,” Marlon answers. He still hasn’t moved from the door. His expression is unreadable.

“Yeah? Do you invite many people in here to get to know them?” Dean asks and wiggles his eyebrows at Marlon with a meaningful smirk before turning his attention to the stuffed snow leopard toy. He grabs it, looks into its blue eyes for a beat, then hugs it to his chest and curls around it as he would if he was sleeping with it. It’s infinitely soft and smells like Marlon.

“No.”

Dean inhales the scent discreetly. It gives him an idea. He rubs his neck against it, then against the pillows, rubbing his own smell against it, just like a cat would scent-mark territory. When he sits up, Marlon has closed his eyes and bent his neck. His cheeks are red. He’s either pissed the hell off, embarrassed over the toy, or affected in another way. Dean can’t tell while his eyes are closed. 

Dean puts his shoes back on and goes to open a door beside the bed. It leads to a walk-in closet that leads to a bathroom. He goes through the closet and looks in the bathroom mirror. He fixes his hair after the disarray the rubbing caused. Then he opens the bathroom cabinet. There’s mostly normal stuff in there, q tips, toothpaste, stuff like that. But there are also antibiotics and sleeping pills. He closes the cabinet and walks back out again. “What are the antibiotics for?”

Marlon snorts at his blatant snooping. “I had an ear infection.”

“Are the sleeping pills any good?”

“They do their job when I need them. Do you have trouble sleeping?”

“Bad dreams. Part of me is still stuck watching people I love die in Afghanistan. Makes it hard to sleep a full night.”

“So why haven’t you tried taking sleeping pills yourself?”

“No insurance. Going to the doctor is expensive business. No worries. Nicky’s got me covered. Pain meds do the trick more often than not.”

Marlon’s brows wrinkle in a troubled frown. “Are you in pain, then?”

Maybe he shouldn’t reveal it, but…. Dean pulls up the leg of his pant to show off his scarred leg. “It acts up sometimes. They said I wouldn’t be able to ever walk again. I said ‘fuck ‘em’, and walked anyway. But yeah. It fucks me over sometimes. It ain’t the state of the art perfection it once was, you feel me? It’s no worse than I can ignore, so who cares?” He doesn’t say that he can’t run for long before the pain becomes excruciating. Some things are better withheld.

“Did Michael know you’re in pain? Did he know you’re uninsured?”

“Insurance never came up. Why look so pissy about it?” Dean asks and comes to stand right in front of Marlon.

“If he was as head over heels in love with you as he claims, your health should have been a priority. He should have made sure you were covered.”

“Yeah, well. That’s on you, pops.” Dean steps closer, invades his space. “The ‘open to discuss anything in private’ only works if both parties know about it. Mike thought you’d tear him a new one, because you never _told him_ he could talk to you without repercussions.” He takes another step closer, puts his hands in his pant pockets and bends his neck slightly. No posturing. That’s not what will get to Marlon, he thinks. “Instead, he was so afraid you’d lose your shit if you heard about me, that he hid me away like a dirty secret. My name showing up on a document tied to him would have been out of the question. None of your kids thought you’d ever be able to forgive me for the name I was born with. Gabe thinks you’d disown him for saying a wrong word in the general vicinity of you. Cas thinks talking to you about personal matters is something he can only do if it’s necessary for a purpose. He says he’s not afraid of you because you’ve got nothing on him that would hurt him without hurting you too.” Dean takes one more step closer, dropping his voice lower. “Dad, that’s on you.” He surprises himself by using the wrong tone of voice when he says ‘dad’. There’s no mocking edge in it, only a sad softness. He can’t see Marlon’s face from this position, head bowed, his temple beside Marlon’s cheekbone, almost touching. But he can see how fast Marlon’s pulse is beating in his throat.

Marlon’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “If they keep in line, and don’t feel the need to veer off course, there’s no need to discuss things. If they feel passionately enough to want to fight for something, they’d come to me despite misplaced fear,” he says, voice as low as Dean’s.

And here they are again. Too close. Air vibrating between them. Dean looks down instead of watching Marlon’s lips when he speaks. Marlon’s tie pin is gold, just like the chain leading to his pocket watch. He smells good, and his chest moves like he’s breathing very carefully.

“Wouldn’t you?” Marlon adds.

He would. He had. He’d been scared shitless before dragging Patrick home to introduce him as his boyfriend. He’d expected broken bones and a year long curfew. Maybe something worse. Marlon’s question hits in a weak spot. It implies Dean isn’t worth fighting for. That he’s trash. “If you were in Mike’s position, would _you_ have done it? Marlon, would you?” He turns his head and grazes Marlon’s cheekbone with the tip of his nose, tickling his cheek with each exhale. He sees the hair on Marlon’s neck stand on end. Hears the soft gasp when he calls Marlon by his name.

“ _Yes._ ” Marlon’s answer is rough like his mouth is dry, and barely audible.

Dean tilts his head up a bit, so he can see Marlon’s eyes. They’re a vibrant, glacier blue. His pupils are huge.

“Yes,” Marlon repeats again, gaze locked with Dean’s. One little word and he give back the worth he took with his question. It’s fucking magic.

Dean’s own pulse is jumping like mad. How did they get to this position once again? Time screeching to a halt and stretching to infinity. Marlon swallows dryly again without looking away, waiting for what’s about to not happen.

The moment stretches.

Dean can see in Marlon’s face, that his mind has wandered off on the same path as Dean’s. In their minds, yesterday’s mistake repeats itself. The tension’s so high it’s almost painful not to give in. This close Marlon has the same gravity pull as a black hole. “Nice digs, by the way. Very inviting,” Dean offers.

“You certainly made yourself at home.” Marlon quirks a tiny smile. His eyes convey uncertainty.

“It’s got that fancy hidden speaker system too?” Dean asks. He should step away. Marlon won’t do anything unless he goes there first, he thinks. He’s gagging to break the tension.

Marlon sticks a hand in his pocket, presumably to use a remote, because the next moment Johnny Cash starts singing in the background, somewhere in the middle of the song.

_Well meet me, Jesus, meet me_   
_Meet me in the middle of the air_  
 _And if these wings don't fail me,_   
_I will meet you anywhere_

Dean turns his head slightly, the tip of his nose skirting downward along Marlon’s cheek. He looks at Marlon’s lips. He’s not going to repeat yesterday’s mistake. He’s _not._ Marlon mirror’s his movement without touching, until their careful breaths tremble between them. He can taste it, the moist, careful exhales.

Dean wonders how anyone can think Marlon is homophobic. He’s passively waiting for Dean to make it or break it, but there’s not a trace of disgust, and Dean’s not armed today. There are no excuses. ‘ _...he might want to secure you as leverage…_ ’ Cas had said. This would certainly do it.

“There’s a TV show called ‘Leverage’. Have you seen it?” Dean asks rather than calling Marlon out directly.

“No.”

“I have.” Dean says in a covert ‘ _I know what you’re up to_ ’, rips himself away and plasters a shitteating grin on his face. He slap-pats Marlon on the arm. “Come on. Let’s get on with the tour, shall we, daddy?”

Marlon turns a delightful shade of crimson. “Of course. Follow me.” He pretends like nothing’s happened, turns the music off, and opens the door.

* * *

It’s interesting to see Marlon interact with his employees. The thought that struck Dean earlier was that maybe Marlon was like Dean in a way. Maybe touch is the way to control him too? Dean counts 47 almost-touches as he’s guided around the office. They stop and talk to people. He’s introduced as a son-in-law. People are _very_ deferential―moreso on the lower storeys―and Marlon hovers his hand in the mimicry of different friendly gestures ever so often. Every time the reaction is the same. People act as if his hand is covered with slime. Most of them try not to show it in fear of insulting him, but all shy away from the hand in one capacity or another. Marlon pretends not to notice.

_He’s aware and he’s fucking doing it on purpose. The difference between an almost touch and a full touch is what gives that creepy feeling instead of a sense of comradery. I bet he isn’t actually touch-averse. I bet it’s just power play. 47 people and not a single one of them pushed into the touch to dispel it, like I would. Maybe that’s why I make him uncomfortable when I touch him?_

In the crowded elevator on the way up Dean tests his new assessment. They’re at the back, and people are facing the door like you do in an elevator. So Dean sidesteps closer to Marlon and discreetly puts his hand in the small of Marlon’s back. Marlon’s eyes widen minutely, cheeks getting pinker, but he remains standing, looking straight ahead like the rest of the people in the elevator.

_You don’t know how to react to this, now do you? You think you need me as leverage somehow and you don’t want to alienate me, but you don’t know how to deal with this so you’re just going to let it happen, don’tcha?_

Dean slides his hand down to his tailbone, further down, and Marlon remains rock still. Dean strokes upward again, this time under Marlon’s suit jacket, up under the vest where only the thin fabric of the dress shirt separate his hand from burning skin. A woman in front of them turns her head and meets Dean’s gaze. He gives her a closelipped smile and winks. She returns the smile, briefly looks to his left where Marlon’s standing. Her eyes widen in something akin to horror when she sees him and her head snaps back to the front again. She never looked down to see what Dean’s hand was doing. This is textbook sexual harassment and Dean thrills that Marlon puts up with it. It makes him feel in control, in a way he hadn’t when they were alone. The tension racking up excites him, because nobody but he and Marlon can feel it.

By the time most of the people have left the elevator Dean’s retracted his hand and sidestepped away from Marlon. It’s a moment in time nobody will ever know about. Unless…

“Are there cameras in the elevator?”

“Just above the door. It wouldn’t have…” Marlon trails off without adding ‘ _have caught what you were doing_ ’. The man standing in front of them briefly throws a glance at them before the elevator dings on his floor and he gets off, leaving them alone for the last stretch up. “That’s a question you should have asked beforehand, son.”

Dean just smirks and winks. Marlon’s jaw flexes but he doesn’t say anything, opting to pretend it didn’t happen.

When they get off at the top floor they run into someone Dean recognises.

“Marlon, my dear old friend!”

“Rudy. I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Marlon smiles and shakes ‘Rudy’s’ hand. Rudolph Sullivan―the same man Mike and Dean had run into, that Mike had introduced Dean as an acquaintance to. Rudy covers Marlon’s hand with his other hand, and Marlon grips Rudy’s upper arm as they shake. No almost-touches here.

“No. I came to have a chat with your lawyer about the Branson merger. Tedious business.”

“Indeed. Rudy, this is―” Marlon lets go of Rudy and gestures towards Dean.

Dean steps forward with a polite smile and cuts Marlon off before he can finish the sentence. “Dean Smith. We’ve met, Mr. Sullivan. I’m an acquaintance of Michael, and currently work for Castiel on his foreign affairs team. Pleased to meet you again,” he says, wanting more than to knock Sullivan’s teeth in as he grabs his hand to shake.

Sullivan doesn’t recognise him. “Oh, yes, yes. I remember,” he says and Dean can see in his eyes that he’s frantically searching for a memory.

“How’s the golfing going? Improved your handicap any since we last met?” Dean continues smoothly and―hopefully―misleadingly. Now Sullivan will think they’ve golfed together if he doesn’t remember Dean.

“Oh, you know, you have good days and bad days.”

Dean chuckles. “Really? Because I’ve improved.” Dean mimics a golf swing. “The next time I will undoubtedly beat you. In fact, Castiel recommended I’d stay away from golfing with business partners in case I’d alienate them by embarrassing them.” He winks cheekily at Sullivan. 

Sullivan rumbles a low chuckle. “I’d love to give you a run for your money the next time then. As you remember, I’m quite adept.”

Hook, line, and sinker. Sullivan _doesn’t_ remember Dean as the scruffy-looking man he’d looked down on like trash, and has bought the lie that they’d golfed together. “Looking forward to it.”

Marlon cuts them off. “I’m sorry Rudy. We need to be on our way. We’re about to have a video conference with several people from other countries. I’d love to stay and chat, but…”

“Oh, I know. Business first, always. We still on for the weekend?”

“Of course.”

They bid him goodbye and continue to Michael’s office. “You like golf?” Marlon asks.

“Dunno. Never tried.”

Marlon gives him a surprised look, then bursts out in a carefree laughter that changes his whole appearance and thrills Dean to the core. “I hate golf,” Marlon confesses once he collected himself. “Possibly because I’m no good at it. I don’t like to lose. Mostly I find it tedious. There are better outdoor activities.”

“So why do you golf?”

“Job requirement. Why did you lie? I wanted to introduce you as my son in law.”

“Yeah, and I wanted to plant my fist in that fucker’s face. But we didn’t. I’ve understood that it would be bad for y’all if he realised I’m gay. So I lied.”

“You didn’t have to. The box is already open and the cat’s dead. The only thing left to do is give it a proper burial.”

“So milk him for any business advantage you can, before he catches on.”

“I didn’t realise you cared for how our business fared?”

“The jury’s still out on that.”

They reach Mikey’s office. Marlon unlocks it and lets Dean inside. “Here you go. Please come see me when you’re done.”

Dean steps inside. Marlon leaves, comes back with a bottle of water and a Dr.Pepper for Dean, then leaves him alone to explore. 

Dean combs Mike's office for clues. Beside his desk, there’s a low mahogany file cabinet. There’s nothing of interest in it, but after Dean’s combed through the office he still drawn back to it. Most of Mike’s office is decorated with glass, chrome, and modern stylish furniture. That piece doesn’t fit in. He opens a drawer and realises that its top board is too thick. He knocks on it. The wood’s so dense that it doesn’t sound hollow. But he puts his ear to it and listens as he knocks. Then he presses his ear to another board, repeating the process. _Bingo!_

There’s a distinct difference, meaning there _is_ a hidden compartment. It takes Dean 45 minutes and all his engineering skills to work out how the lock mechanism functions. It’s a marvelous multi-stage process to open it. Then, with a soft click and a little hiss, a section of the thick board shoots out, revealing a notebook. Dean takes it almost reverently. He opens it to find it’s filled with random writing and has several photos stuck between the pages. Photos of him, and of Nick. 

_He kept me here while he was working. He took me with him, even if it was only in a metaphorical sense. Nor did he forget all about Nick._

It’s not quite a diary. More like random thoughts. The last thing written is: _Offered me to take his place. Is it worth it?_

Then, at the bottom of the page, bold and underlined: _**YES! He’ll always be worth it!**_

Dean closes the notebook and puts it in his inside pocket. He’ll read the rest later.

_Huh. Yeah that’s not cryptical_ at all. _I’ll figure it out._

He restores the room to look like before he rummaged through it, then goes to find Marlon.

* * *


	76. Pedigree Without Its Papers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been on a writing roll these couple of days, and my awesome Betas have helped me loads! We're only a few chapters away from when Dean figures out where Mikey is and I'm so excited for it. Hopefully you'll get updates fairly frequently for a few chapters. :D As always, thank you so much for all your comments! They do so much to keep me motivated even when I don't have time to answer them. :/ <3

* * *

# Pedigree Without Its Papers

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 8 months) Dean’s known Nick for 2 years, 11 months

Dean’s sitting in the chair opposite Marlon by his desk. Even his visitor’s chairs are fit for a boss, though his chair’s still bigger and more comfortable. Dean sips the Cognac he’s been offered. It’s the same brand as yesterday. It might be the best liquor he’s ever had. Alas, once again it came from a carafe so he hadn’t been able to spy the brand.

“Did you find anything?”

“Did you think I would?”

Marlon shrugs, sips his own Cognac and procures an ashtray for Dean without being asked. Dean takes his pack from a pocket, lights a cigarette, and holds the pack out to Marlon in a silent offer. Marlon’s lips quirk in a tiny smile, but he shakes his head. “No. But you never know,” answering the spoken question.

Dean blows three smoke rings. “Tell me… For you to think I might find an answer to Mike’s disappearance, you have to believe we don’t have him…”

“Just keeping doors open, son. Though your investigation could just be a clever ruse.”

“Yeah, no. I don’t buy it. You don’t think we have him. So what I’m curious about, is what you’d done if I’d agreed to our… _deal_ , yesterday, and then hadn’t been able to produce Mike.”

Marlon stretches his leg under the desk and sizes Dean up with sharp eyes from over the rim of his glass as he takes another sip. Now his eyes are icy blue, hinting at silver grey. The pause before he answers is long enough to get heavy and tangible. “I still would have held you to it.”

“Anything to fuck Nicky over and bone his loved one?”

“No. You would have agreed to make sure Michael retook his position here at HQ, leading our business into continued success. I will not be around forever, after all. You’d also help ensure Luci kept himself in check instead of sabotaging for us. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve engaged in a marriage of convenience.”

“Convenience? I thought you loved your wife.”

“I did. Very much so. I confess I was smitten with her at first sight. Love came later, when we got to know each other. But I would not have pursued her if it wasn’t convenient.”

“So why her then?”

Marlon runs his tongue over his teeth under closed lips just like Mike does. “You and me, we have something in common―”

“Doubt it,” Dean cuts in but Marlon continues as if he didn’t.

“―We both lost our parents in a car crash. Granted, I wasn’t in the car when it happened, and your father only died in a spiritual sense. But our lives both changed drastically due to a car crash.”

That perks Dean’s interest. None of the Williams boys had mentioned grandparents. He raises his eyebrow to prompt Marlon to go on and takes another drag on his cigarette.

“I’m the second oldest in a brood of five. I had an older brother and three younger sisters. Much like Lucifer, I was a rebellious, spoiled child. I had no interest in going into the family business and frequently gave my parents grey hairs.”

Dean shifts, spins the chair sideways and stretches his legs along the side of the desk, crossing his ankles. He rests his elbow on the desk and keeps his head turned to keep up a steady―now fully interested―eye contact. He’d used past tense about his siblings too, Dean notes. “What happened?”

“I was fourteen. We were all supposed to go to a fundraiser party. I didn’t want to, so I hid. Figured I’d rather hang out in my room, smoke some weed or raid the liquor cabinet. They sent Matthew to find me. He was my brother. When he couldn’t find me, they bid him to stay behind and apprehend me so I wouldn’t avoid punishment when they got back. The car was hit by a drunk truck driver on the way. The car was totalled. My parents and my sisters all died. Then there was only me and my seventeen-year-old brother to govern and hold onto our empire while the vultures circled, trying to rob us of everything. I don’t think my tale had taken such a positive turn if Matt hadn’t been there for me. It’s my foremost reason for encouraging my kids to bond so strongly as they have. If something happens, they will always have someone to fall back on. I’ve never loved anyone as strongly as I came to love Matt after our parents and sisters died. He was my rock.”

“Did you love him as much as Mike and Nick love each other?”

“That’s not a healthy love.”

“That’s not an answer,” Dean deadpans.

“No. I did _not_. I think that if I did, I would not have survived his death, a couple of years later. While I reined myself in and stepped up to the role I was saddled with at birth, Matt didn’t handle the pressure as well as I. He began to use drugs, and died of an overdose.”

Dean sips his Cognac, thinking. It was a long time ago, and Marlon talks about it without many feelings showing. But how would he have felt at fourteen? As a bratty teen not wanting to mantle responsibility, with hormones raging and feelings to figure out. He drank and did drugs at fourteen. A wild child. It’s hard to imagine when looking at the tightly controlled man sitting in front of him. He sits in his chair as if he’s sitting on the Iron Throne. People have died to put him there. Literally. People he loved. He’s got such confidence and takes up any room he enters with mere presence. Even when he’s insecure and afraid he fills the cracks between molecules and demands attention. “You were twenty years old when he died,” Dean hedges. “Those vultures you spoke about, they came back, thinking they could rip your heritage from you now that you were alone. But you thought ‘fuck them’, found yourself a suitable woman from a family that was on your side. Or would be, if you were married to their daughter. And you proposed.”

Marlon sucks in a soft little breath, eyes lighting up from within. He almost smiles, but fucking _radiates_ pleased excitement. “Very good, Dean. How did you know?”

Dean preens inwardly at the praise. “You said you married out of convenience. Lotta would have been a possible option to gain an ally considering how hung up on you she is, but she was still too young. She told me you were twenty when you met ‘ _the harlot_ ’. It fits.”

“Indeed it does.”

“You and Lotta, have you ever…?” Dean makes a vague gesture and whistles a sound to indicate in-and-out.

Marlon makes a face of disgust. “No. I have never mounted that mad cow. Nor have I any wish to do so.”

“It didn’t stop you from looking. She told me she’d make sure that you caught her masturbating when you came over. Instead of turning away and leaving the room, you sat down and proceeded to give her instructions. It wasn’t a one-time occurrence.”

“She sure told you a lot.”

“She bragged about it while she was directing me. When I jerked off to get the video? She told me you used to do it, even after you got married.”

Marlon sips his Cognac and studies him. “I’ve never laid with another than my wife, but I _have_ looked. That’s true. I don’t need anyone to do to me, what I can do with my own hand. But I like to watch. Occasionally I’ve visited strip clubs, or gotten my belly full of nudity from other venues. I’ve got a sex drive, son, I just don’t let it control me. And Lotta? She’s always been so eager to please. She was just an annoying child when my family died in that car crash, but she adored me and has kept loyal through the years. I may not like her very much, but I still consider her a friend life chose for me.”

_’Life chose for me.’ That’s one way to put it._

“When did you stop watching Lotta?”

“When my wife died. I pleaded grief as the reason. Lotta wants me. I have no excuse not to follow through with a marriage if I’d allow myself to be tempted to seek her out for the purpose of watching. She knows I’m one woman’s man. I’m certain she’s still plotting how to get her claws in me. You should know, Dean, if you’d taken the deal, or if you take the deal, and marry me, you can rest assured nobody alive, save yourself, would know me in the biblical sense.”

And that’s tempting. Not even in the near vicinity of tempting enough, but still. It sweetens the deal. A deal Dean doesn’t quite understand why Marlon’s pushing for now that Dean’s confessed not to have access to Mike. 

“You’re old,” he says bluntly. “What makes you think I want to?”

It hits home. More than he intended. Marlon averts his gaze, a muscle twitch by his eye. Oh, he covers it well, but he’s hurt. 

_He’s vain. Nick told me. His age must be a sensitive thing if he’s bothered to have plastic surgery._

“It has other perks aside from…” Marlon gestures vaguely with his hand. “I’m a very influential man. You’d get access to all that influence.”

_Take away with one hand, now let’s give it back with the other._

“You misunderstand, Marlon. I couldn’t give a shit about your age. You’re one handsome fucker. That’s not what I was asking about. Believe me, if I did take the deal…” He chuckles. “Let’s just say there’s no rest for the wicked, and leave it at that.”

Marlon looks back at him with a bemused look. “Then what did you mean, Mr. Williams?”

“I _mean_ , there’s a to death do us part clause to that contract. I’d lose you too soon.”

“I’d make sure my kids wouldn’t be able to squirrel you out of the will. And if you handled your cards correctly, they wouldn’t want to.”

“No. Not like that. For how long could I keep _you_? Fuck money.”

And there it is. Another vulnerable spot uncovered. It seems unreal that ‘the great’ Marlon Williams would give a shit if people wanted him for his power or not. Hell, he _is_ power. It’s so tightly woven into the fabric of who he is, he'd probably shine of it, even if he was homeless. But the small muscles of his face gives away the opposite. A slight widening of his eyes, the way the muscles of his forehead and around his eyes suddenly relaxes, how his jaw slackens a little bit… as with all of his honest expressions, it's there and gone in the blink of an eye. But to Dean, it screamed of vulnerability. “I have three decades left to live, give or take. I'm sure it would be enough for you,” Marlon states in a businesslike fashion.

“You planning live until you're a hundred, huh?” Dean sniggers, blowing smoke upward. 

“I'm not planning to ever die. But death claims us all, sooner or later. And there's nothing we can do about it.”

Dean sips his Cognac and studies Marlon, trying to figure him out. He’s hard because nobody taught him how to be soft. A rebel at first, then his family died. There would have been the grief to cope with at the same time as he and his older brother struggled to keep control of the family business, as people tried to exploit two too young orphans. His brother died of an overdose, which probably meant he started descending into his drug abuse fairly quickly after they lost their parents and sisters for it to have progressed so fast. Which means Marlon had to watch the person he loved the most disappear the same way Dean saw his own dad transform under the influence of alcohol. Helpless to stop it. He never saw a choice for himself. The family business was the only constant. He still doesn’t see a choice for himself. But it makes sense now. 

Dean takes another cig out of his pack and puts it behind his ear, holding the cognac and his lit cig in one hand. Marlon tracks the movement. “You keep surprising me, Mr. Williams,” Marlon states, apropos nothing. 

Dean huffs, takes one last drag on his cigarette and squishes it in the ashtray. “Positively or negatively?”

“Positively.”

“That tells me you didn’t think very highly of me, to begin with.”

“ _Or_ , maybe I had very high expectations of you because I know my sons value intelligence. And you keep exceeding those expectations. Don’t mistake me for _you_.” 

Dean grunts at the jab at his low sense of self-worth. He’s not wrong. He can’t see what he's done that Marlon would be impressed by. He retreats on the inside, raising walls, trying not to think about what a fucking loser he really is. He tries not to let his expression show but Marlon catches it and quickly changes the subject.

“I told you I’ve taught all my sons the basics of boxing. Gabe never liked it and opted out any chance given. Cas did what was asked of him, but showed no inclination to like it. Mikey wanted to do what Luci did, and Luci _loved_ it. He’s the only kid you could find practising on his own. Sometimes against an imagined shadow foe, sometimes against a tree or a punching bag. He enjoyed boxing and Mike put up with it. When they were ten they were boxing with each other. I didn’t allow them to until they had the basics down, but they were ready to practise against each other. As with kids in general, it turned from practise into a real match. Temperance is something that comes with age. Luci shone. He loved it and he was good. Fighting came naturally to him. He got in a mean right hook and broke Mikey’s nose. Mikey fell like a tree, and for a moment you could see the triumph on Luci’s face. But then Mikey started crying and held his bleeding nose. Luci was horrified. He tried to console Mikey, but he too started crying. Luci kept crying long after Mikey was patched up and had stopped bawling. Luci spent two days wallowing in crippling guilt. What does that tell you?”

“That he’s got empathy.”

Marlon hums. “Well. You’re not wrong...” he says and looks disappointed.

The disappointment makes Dean’s gut churn. “What did it tell you?”

“That Luci got so caught up in the game that he forgot to think about the consequences. He knew of the risks, but once he was in that ring it was gone. All he focused on was taking Mikey out. And it wasn’t the last time either. It always made me worry. He frequently harmed those he cared for the most. I didn’t know what to do about it, because no punishment I could think of, would be worse than the guilt and remorse he displayed afterwards. Mikey forgave him anything. What would you have done, in my place?”

“I don’t know. Ain’t exactly father material. Didn’t have a good role model to teach me.”

“No…” Marlon answers with a drifting tone. “I’m proud of Lucifer, regardless.”

Dean lifts a sceptical eyebrow, prompting Marlon to expand.

“His fear of being locked up is crippling. He’s got trouble with tight spaces. Despite that, he completed the training required by the special forces. I’ve seen what they have to go through. He’d have to have been crammed into tunnels and other situations that must have been trialling for him, considering that mental handicap. I’m proud of him for pulling through,” Marlon explains.

“Have you told him that?”

“No. We’ve hardly spoken since he walked out on the family. And when we have, it wasn’t amicable. The fault lies on both of us. He hates me and avoids me at all costs. And I? I don’t believe in the bible drivel about saving the lost lamb, leaving your post to chase after it while the rest of the herd is picked off by wolves. I’ve got an empire and six other children to manage. I need to prioritise. As a child, it’s the wrong responsibility to lay on his shoulders. But he’s also an adult man, capable of making his own choices.”

Dean purses his lips. “Is Mike okay?” he asks, watching Marlon carefully.

A muscle by Marlon’s eye twitches, but his expression doesn’t change. “Shouldn’t I be the one to ask you that?”

“If we had him, yeah. But we don’t.”

“Then I sincerely hope he is.”

Dean lets his eyes wander. They fall upon a couple of folders lying on Marlon’s desk. He recognises a name printed on one of them and grabs it to look at it. “What’s this?”

“It’s a company we’re thinking of investing in. They’re been doing increasingly well this year. We can see no indication of the trend turning anytime soon,” Marlon humours him.

Dean rifles through the folder quickly. He reads the names of the owners and remembers _why_ they look familiar. He throws the folder on the desk. “No. Trust me. You want to stay the fuck away from that company or it’s gonna blow up in your face.”

Marlon raises his eyebrows and leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Oh? What makes you think that?”

Dean spins his chair around to face Marlon head on. Under the desk, their legs brush against each other. None of them pull back. “Because the owner is a cheating bastard. He’s got a mistress, right? And the better the company has done, the cockier has he gotten, getting increasingly sloppy about covering up the trails of his infidelity while leaving more and more of his work to be done by his wife. His wife has a history of acting like a vindictive little bitch. So when she finds out, she’ll hit him where it hurts. Most likely she’ll kill his baby, which just so happens to be his company. It’s just a matter of time before this success story goes belly up.”

“Where did you find this out?” Marlon’s eyes have shifted colour from icy grey-blue to brilliant sky blue, conveying excitement. His pupils have dilated too.

“Just something I picked up at the ball and could confirm while snooping for info on what happened to Mike.” It’s a piece of gossip Cas had fed him, but that he hadn’t had the opportunity to spread it before it was showtime. “I ain’t revealing my sources to you, but I trust them.”

“Fair enough. We won’t invest in the company then. Good job, son.” 

Dean leans back with a thrill of excitement over the praise. “Dude. It’s just a piece of gossip. No biggie.”

“I beg to differ, son. Information is useless if you don’t know how to apply it. Many fail to see how much personal relationships can influence business. Well done.”

Dean’s cheeks heat up. Cas had told him about the affair and the wife’s vindictive tendencies. But he hadn’t said she’d hit the company. That’s his own assessment after interviewing the pair. As such, the praise is directed at him personally and he’s surprised and a bit ashamed of how much he craves it. He doesn’t know how to respond.

“That reminds me, I got you something this morning,” Marlon says, once again saving Dean the trouble of saying something.

“You knew I was gonna call?”

Marlon chuckles and opens his desk drawer. “Not at all. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’ve bought presents I never got the chance to give. I’ve got quite a collection at home. Here,” He takes a black velvet jewellery box and hands it over. “It reminds me of you.”

Dean takes it and opens the box curiously. It’s a rock or perhaps a piece of glass that’s been beaten up in the sea. He takes it out and puts it in the palm of his hand. It feels too cold to be glass. It’s a bit dirty looking inside one corner and it’s square-ish like many minerals are. Its edges and surface are uneven, but it seems to be mostly clear on the inside, and it’s fairly shiny. It takes up the middle of his palm. Had he found it on the dry sands of a beach, he’d have picked it up, thinking it looked pretty, then thrown it away again. A piece of trash. A pretty but worthless rock. However, since Marlon gave it to him, and is looking expectantly at him, he guesses it’s an uncut gemstone of some sort.

“You know, most people use words when they give compliments,” Dean hedges with a lopsided, cocky smirk, puts the stone back in the box and pockets it.

Marlon grins a toothy grin that shows his gums. It reminds Dean of Cas, even if Marlon’s grin isn’t quite as gummy. “You have a knack of misinterpreting compliments. I figured, if you’re going to reshape that one, you can’t make it anything but more beautiful.”

_So it’s definitely a gemstone._

“What do you want from me?” Dean asks, stretching out his legs under Marlon’s Desk, solidifying the contact where their calves brush.

“I’ve told you already, son. Make Michael step back in his rightful place, and keep Lucifer from causing trouble.”

“No. That’s the purpose. I mean, what do _you_ want? How do you really feel about me, papa?”

“It’s not important what I personally want and feel. It never has been and never will be. So what purpose does it serve to tell you?”

“Just because you can’t see a purpose right now doesn’t mean there ain’t none,” Dean deadpans.

Marlon doesn’t answer, just looks at him with an unreadable expression.

“You want me to do somethin’ for ya. Newsflash, you want me to give you a piece of me, in any fucking capacity, no fucking stone will buy it for ya. You’ll have to barter with what you’ve got inside.”

Marlon’s gaze is intense. The pause that follows becomes pregnant and heavy. Marlon swallows, his jaw muscle ticks. Dean sips the Cognac, waiting. He’s got nowhere else to be at the moment. He’s got all the time in the world to play the staring game.

At long last Marlon looks away and takes a sip of his own glass. “What is it you want to hear, Dean? Do you want to know that your looks entrance me and bring me to distraction? That I find myself at loss for words in your presence, more often than I care to admit? Or do you wish me to tell you that my pulse dances like a high strung horse when you smile at me?” He casts a glance Dean’s way before looking away again, fixing his gaze on the painting on the wall. “Earlier today I saw you claim a territory we both know you’re never going to hunt. Do you crave my confession, that tonight I will bury my nose in those pillows in hopes of catching your lingering scent? Would you enjoy hearing that I wish what no father should wish when he looks upon his son’s spouse? To know how it would feel to run my fingers over that dusted, golden skin and swallow every little gasp and whimper I could trick out of you, and store them for safekeeping behind my breastbone? Do you want me to confess how I have a strong urge to impress you? And that I await your judgement with baited breath any time I show you something, hoping you’ll approve.”

Marlon’s tone and expression are offhanded, but his cheeks are burning crimson, the blush spreading down over his throat and past his collar. 

Dean’s heart is hammering in his chest, his gut flopping like a stranded fish and his own cheeks might very well be as red as Marlon’s judging by how hot they feel.

“Or do you wish I’d tell you something even more humiliating? That you awaken strange, conflicting feelings in me that disturb me and leaves me confused and at loss for how to deal with them. I can’t decide if I wish to have you sitting at my feet as naked as the day you were born, while I read a book, my hand running through the wheat golden strands of your sun-bleached hair and your cheek rested against my thigh until you get restless, and goad me into games of the flesh. Or if I rather have you on my lap, imparting my accumulated knowledge on you to see you grow as a man, all while you call me dad and do your best to live up to the hopes I have for you, while basking in the praise I give you. I wish to do right by you, like I too often have failed with my own children. These little fantasies don’t converge, and as such, they unsettle me.”

The chord echoes inside Dean. It sounds fucking _good_. Sex he could get anywhere. It’s those confusing feelings of pride and contentment anytime Marlon’s praised him that does the trick. He hadn’t even _known_ how badly he ached for a father figure until he met Marlon. No. Maybe he had known? Harvelle had given him similar feelings, becoming a pseudo-mother to him, but she lacked the second part of the chemistry that he and Marlon had. The part that made the promise of a kiss vibrate the air between them anytime they came too close to each other.

If the Williams family hadn’t been so fucked up, Dean could have had this. Not the sex part, but the mentor. Now he’s a traitor for just talking to Marlon. And maybe Marlon’s just saying this to manipulate him? Maybe this is how he puts his hands down Dean’s pants and firmly grasp him by the balls? That’s what Nick said - ‘ _You won’t know he has you by the balls until he starts twisting._ ’ 

“Does it make you feel dirty, papa?” Dean taunts in self-defence with a lopsided smirk, using mockery to distance himself from Marlon’s allure.

Marlon meets his gaze and laces his fingers together on the desk in front of him. “Not at all, Mr. Williams. Perturbed, and uncomfortable. But not dirty,” he answers easily and without hesitation. “The intention behind these feelings hold no malice, and as such, they don’t feel dirty. Even less so when you negotiated our deal yesterday. Despite it supposedly being a fit of curiosity, or perhaps a wish to shock and provoke, it didn’t escape my notice that you put my sons’ future happiness first and foremost, offering to sacrifice yourself for the greater good. This is something I highly respect.”

If Dean’s cheeks felt hot before, they’re fucking burning now.

“Of course, I have no way of knowing if you’d hold up your end of the bargain. And as such, it still puts your character into question,” Marlon adds.

Dean gives him an angry glare. “I might be little more than trailer trash with the questionable pedigree of a street cur, but I ain’t full of shit. I sign a contract, I follow through. There ain’t no safewords in life. I made a career of following through on promises that would cost me. And cost me it has. It fucked up my leg and killed people I love, but I stood fast until they didn’t want me no more.”

Something sharp and pleased flits over Marlon’s face. “I see. I thought the pedigree reference you made at the ball was meant to include you and Lucifer both. I now understand it wasn’t, so allow me to divulge my knowledge of the questionable pedigree you mentioned. A young man named Jonathan Winchester came to America 1764. He was born in London and he was an esteemed businessman. He was sent to America to oversee taxes, hired by the king himself. Back in England, his family owned land and estates, but he sided with the Americans in the war for independence. During the revolution, he played his part as a soldier, and earned his nickname ‘Hunter’ due to his prowess and hunting enemies down when they hid. Sometime during the war, he met his wife Ellinor, and they had two sons. After the war, he used his talent for seeing business opportunities and started ‘Hunter’s Investments’. He was very successful and taught his sons the trade. The company changed the name to Hunter & Sons when they came of age. Patrick and Jacob then continued the tradition, building wealth for both themselves and their clients, teaching their sons the trade as well. Unlike my own family, who became their clients 1832, the Winchesters moved around. Each family bought their own estates or houses, instead of clinging on to one family home.”

Dean tries very hard not to go slack-jawed and awed by the tale. But he’s hanging onto each word as if they’re sacred.

Marlon goes on. “Now, the Winchesters were very traditional in one sense. They all followed in Hunter’s footsteps, not only when it came to the family business, but also when it came to defending their country. The Winchesters were hit hard by the first and the second world war. The Vietnam war took your grandfather from you and left John as the last of what once was a very large and respected family. I know the house you lived in as a child, was fairly humble in comparison. And the house you moved to after your mother’s death was all but falling apart. So unless your father told you, you might not have realised. But did you know you were millionaires? Before your father squandered not only our money, but yours as well? Did you know that you were what is commonly referred to as ‘old money’?”

Dean shakes his head before he can stop himself.

“No? You see now, that you too have been sold without your papers. But you have a damn fine pedigree. It’s in your blood.” Marlon smiles, eyes pleased, happy to have handed over said papers.

“And this is true?”

“If you choose not to believe me, there are archives to pursue. It shouldn’t be too hard. The Winchesters you come from have a well-documented history. I know all this because of how interwoven our families have been since 1832. There’s even been an instance of inter-marriage between us, even if it was only between less important cousins that branched off from the main families.”

Dean lowers his head thoughtfully and sips the last of the Cognac. Maybe it shouldn’t change anything, but it does. It makes him see himself differently. It lifts a sense of unworthiness about dating first Mike, then marrying Nick. He’s always seen himself as jumped-up trash in comparison to them. Like they were slumming it with him. Like maybe they should be with people who come from their own class, after all. 

_I wonder if Sam knows this? I promised I’d stay away from him, but if I could scrape together everything I can find about our family’s history, and deliver it to him, then maybe he could be proud? Then maybe he wouldn’t feel like what’s in his blood is tainted. **Our** founding father fought alongside the founding fathers of our country. That’s fucking awesome! He needs to know that. I need to fucking give him that. Even if he doesn’t want me as a brother, he still might want Jonathan Winchester, right? Yeah. I’m going to do that. I don’t have to deliver it in person…_

Dean looks up and meets Marlon’s gaze. “Thank you,” he says earnestly.

“You’re welcome,” Marlon answers with a little nod and a quirk of his lip.

“No.” Dean reaches over the desk and cups his hand over Marlon’s interlaced ones. He gives them a little press. “I mean it, papa. _Thank you._ ”

Marlon’s face softens. His thumb strokes Dean’s fingers. He draws breath as to answer but Dean feels too vulnerable all the sudden, and stands up, retracting his hand.

“I should go,” he informs Marlon, then turns on his heel and stalks towards the door with his head bent.

Marlon silently watches him leave.

* * *


	77. Prayers

* * *

# Prayers

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 8 months) Dean’s known Nick for 2 years, 11 months

 

“Hey, Gabe!” Dean chirps in the phone.

“Deano. So soon? I’m beginning to think you want to do a switcharoo of brothers again,” he jokes.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Elves. You got them, I need them.”

“Mis duendes, tus duendes,” Gabe answers.

“Yeah, okay. I have no idea what you just said there, but I need to know fucking everything that can be dug up about my heritage. From my father all the way back to Jonathan ‘Hunter’ Winchester, who lived back in the 1800’s. If he’s real that is. Can you help me?”

“You know it, compadre.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“De nada.”

“Are you in Spain?”

Gabe sniggers. “What gave me away?”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head, and hangs up. Gabe had the annoying habit of hanging up without a goodbye. On the upside he never got offended when someone hung up on him that way.

* * *

Dean watches Sam get out of the car and hurry inside the coffee shop he always goes to before work. Dean runs his fingers over the “`S.W.` he’s written on the thick folder on the passenger seat beside him. He opens the folder and fastens a little note on the inside of the folder with a paperclip, then he takes the folder and exits the car. He can see Sam through the window of the coffee shop, standing in line talking in his phone. He hurries over the street and puts the folder under the windshield wiper by the driver’s seat on Sam’s car, and hurries back to his own car. Then he waits.

Sam comes back carrying a to-go cup of coffee, frowns when he spots the folder, looks around in bemusement, then takes it, getting into his car. Dean can see him put the coffee in the cup holder, flip the folder open and remove the note. Dean mouths along silently while Sam reads it. “ _I know you want nothing to do with me, but I found something out about our family that made me proud. I wanted you to be proud of our heritage too, even if your big bro is a mess. Love you, Dean._ ”

Sam’s mouth falls open. He quickly looks up the street, then turns in his seat to look behind him too, as if he’s expecting Dean to be standing somewhere nearby. When he can’t spot Dean he goes back to looking at the folder. Dean watches as he rifles through the pages, eyes wide in wonder and a smile slowly spreading on his face. He covers his mouth with his hand and blinks rapidly. When he removes his hand he’s smiling broadly.

Dean’s grinning like a mad dog, chest bursting with joy over the successful gift.

Then Sam suddenly looks up and out of the window. He spots Dean in the car on the other side of the street, visibly sucks in a breath, puts down the folder and opens the car door.

 

“Shit, shit, shit!” Dean starts the car and drives out of his parking spot.

“ _Dean! Wait!_ ” Sam calls out, muffled through the car glass, crossing the street. He has to stop to let a car pass and Dean takes his chance, stepping on the gas and leaving Sam in the dust, waving and calling for him.

* * *

“ _Dear God,_  
 _Please, if you have to take a life, take mine instead. Let him live. I don’t know how I would keep breathing if he’s not in this world. Dean’s quieted the internal scream of anguish that haunted me before, and I’m forever thankful that You led Dean to me. But please, extend your blessing over my brother. Let him pull through. It’s physically painful not to be able to go to him. If he dies, the sacrifice I make by keeping away, will be for naught. My heart only beats because I know that somewhere out in the world, his heart beats in tandem with mine. I love Dean, and he soothes my soul, but he doesn’t love me back. I don’t think he’d understand if I explained to him how I feel about my brother. I don’t think anyone can, save You. Please, God, grant him the strength to pull through, and live happy without me, as I couldn’t before you gave me Dean._  
 _Amen._ ”

Dean snaps the notebook shut and draws in on himself hugging it to his chest while he struggles to breathe. The ink on the page is blotchy where Mike’s tears must have landed to distort the writing and the secondhand pain he feels constricts his chest and twists his gut. The date on the page with the prayer coincides with when Nick was still in his coma, just before they were going to wake him up. Dean’s eyes sting, tears pushing inside his eyelids. His body cramps, thinking about the sheer internal agony Mike struggled with right under his nose.

He’d read the notebook trying to avoid angsting over what would happen when Nick came home. He hadn’t expected the prayers. Most of the entries were work related. Mike often wrote questions to himself and answered them at the bottom of the page. Some of the pages were math, plain and simple. One page had been covered with “Dean” written in different handwritings, hearts dotting the page or circling his name, like a teenager’s infatuated schoolbook doodles. Other pages held just a few sentences, directed at someone else. “ _I miss you. You’ve been gone for too long now. When you come home, can’t you stay forever this time? Let this be your last tour._ ” Most predates the split between them and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who Mike was writing his one-sided conversation to. But the prayers, they were the real killers. They belonged to a heart that didn’t know how to be unbroken, and yearned for a God that didn’t exist, to mend it. And, failing that, for God to make sure that Mike’s loved ones found happiness.

The most heartbreaking thing about it, is that there’s a sense of acceptance that Mike himself will never get his heart’s wishes fulfilled. That his wants hold no importance. It’s not his destiny. It echoes of his father’s words “ _It’s not important what I personally want and feel._ ” Although, Dean does get a sense of that what Mike wants and feels regularly coincides with his work. From loose sentences here and there it seems like Mike enjoys his work very much, and takes great pride in it.

That doesn’t stop him from bawling like a child now, after reading that last prayer. At that point in their relationship Dean hadn’t even started to doubt Mike’s sincerity towards him, and yet “ _I love Dean… but he doesn’t love me back._ ” As if Mike wasn’t the world to him at that point. He’d gone through the horror of fearing Nick’s death, seeking comfort with Dean, thinking Dean never loved him. And why? Because Dean didn’t use words? Because he was scared shitless of rejection and didn’t dare opening up.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, s-so sorry,” Dean sobs into the pillow. Fuck, but it hurts. Mike had said it frequently, but he’d been a wounded, frightened animal, baring his teeth - expecting pain from the hand that gently petted him. All rough edges like the pretty stone Marlon gave him. It’s fitting, and he treasures the stone more now. Rough, pretty, but cold. Leading warmth away and dissipating it.

And Mike really did love him.

But why all the lies? What did he fear would happen if he told Dean the truth about Nick? Did he think Dean would leave him? Did he fear Dean would tell Nick, once he knew they met? Because the first thing Nick had done when he got home was to call Mike. So Mike knew they met. 

Dean cries himself out, then lies thinking of these questions. Most important question, why did Mike lie?

Marlon knew Mike and Nick had crossed the forbidden line. How he knew it would probably remain a mystery, but he knew. He’d found out and disowned Nick. There had been a huge fight and Mike had locked himself into his room, mourning. Money wasn’t the issue here. Dean had found out enough about the family these last couple of days to realise he had to think on a grander scale.

What was it Marlon had said about Nick? ‘ _He did something that threatened to ruin this family, have himself and Michael thrown in jail, cause a scandal that would have ruined his sisters’ lives…_ ’

Incest is illegal. If it had gotten known that Mike and Nick were lovers, they would possibly go to jail for it. Marlon had said that the only one that really understand discretion, is Castiel, so he believed Mike and Nick wouldn’t be able to keep it under lids. So that part is understandable. But how would it ruin their _sisters’_ lives?

_I’ve never seen the girls interact with each other. But according to Nick they’re as close as the brothers with each other. Let’s go with that. I know the brothers have no qualms about cuddling or sharing a bed. What if their closeness had always made people lift an eyebrow and wonder? What if there were loose rumours and gossip around the siblings since forever, but nobody had proof?_

_If that’s the case, if Mike and Nick got caught it would put all the siblings into question. The whole family would be suspected of incest and become pariahs._

_The media would **love** it! The family would get known for ‘endorsing’ incest, and it would bleed over to their businesses. Fuck but it probably **would** trigger a boycott from both left and right. They would survive it, I’m pretty sure of it, but they might have to cut off rotting branches, firing thousands of people. The business would be staggering for a couple of years. Marlon still reviews individual cases randomly to remind himself that numbers are people. He feels responsible for **all** his employees._

_Fuck me. That also explains why Marlon would agree to let Mike and Nick live together if I followed through with our deal. He genuinely believes I can control them―control_ Nick _―and make sure they are discreet. He may not like it, but he doesn’t really care if they bone each other, just like he doesn’t care about Cas and Balt._

Dean sits up and puts the notebook away for now. He takes a tissue from the nightstand to blow his nose and dry his eyes. Then he lights a cigarette. He takes a deep breath of smoke and blows three smoke rings, watching them dissipate as he thinks.

It all comes down to things Marlon’s said. So what had he said about Nick?

‘ _He wanted to be free and I let him. I told the world the lies it needed to hear to stop his actions from affecting the rest of the family and our business..._ ’

Pinning the blame for what happened between Nick and Mike on Nick made sense in several ways, now that he knew Marlon. Marlon’s official stance of repudiation, even before the disownment, allowed Nick to do whatever fuck he wanted. The freedom would remain intact even after the disownment, but without _any_ ties to the family. Before the disownment, when they were still just not on speaking terms, Nick could have opened a fucking flower shop like he’d dreamed about, but he was so caught up in his rebellion, aiming to disprove that he couldn’t follow orders, so he joined the fucking army. Something he hadn’t even wanted to do. Just like when he broke Mike’s nose when they boxed, or when he beat him so badly he ended up in the hospital. And for what? All because Mike had tried to forbid him to leave for the army. Just like he’d lost his temper on Dean and knocked him unconscious, then proceeded to kick him once he was down.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. Marlon really does know his sons well. What would Nicky have done if he was ordered to stay away from Mike? Or if Mike had told him the truth, that he still loved him more than life, but they couldn’t be together because of the possible consequences? Like hell, Nick woulda seen reason in that._

_But they could just have been discreet about it._

Dean remembers his first encounter with Sullivan. He might not have thought about it if he hadn’t run into him three days ago. Mike had let go of his hand and introduced him as an acquaintance. Nick had said that if it had been him running into Sullivan, he would have stuck his tongue down Dean’s throat just to make a point. Compare that to how he’d almost killed the guy Dean had fucked when Nick was about to hook up with those two women… It’s easy to imagine what Nick would do if somebody tried to take Mike away from him. He’d set the whole world ablaze and watch it burn, not caring who burned up with it until he saw the ruins.

But Nick had accepted Dean leaving him of his own accord. He’d given space when Dean withdrew and went AWOL, and he’d been surprised Dean wanted him to stay after he’d beat the crap out of him. So the only way Nick would accept being separated from Mike, was if Mike himself didn’t want him around anymore.

It reminds Dean of a scene in some old dog movie he’d seen as a kid. A kid is trying to save his faithful dog by driving it away, throwing stones and sticks at it, yelling at it to go and that he doesn’t want the dog anymore. The dog doesn’t get why he’s doing it and that’s what made the scene so sad.

His lip wobbles.

_Dammit! I’m not gonna cry again!_

He rubs a hand over his face and takes another drag on the cigarette, staving off the tears.

He needs to be methodical about this. Think about the facts, not get swept up in the emotions.

So.

  * Marlon found out Mike and Nick had done it, somehow. How’s not important.
  * Previously he’d let Nick be free, only upholding an act of repudiation, but let him interact freely with the family. 
  * He’s doesn’t trust Nick to be discreet, so he orders Mike to cut him off.
  * None of them fear disownment, so Marlon has to have something else hanging over Mike’s head. Something big enough for Mike to drive Nick away.



The only thing Dean can think of at this point, is Nick. Nick’s the leverage over Mike.

_Marlon must have said something bad would happen to Nick if Mike didn’t drive him away. Shit. We stepped all over that on the ball. I told Marlon I’d met Nick at Mike’s place. Fuck!_

He remembers so clearly Mike’s anguished, barely audible “What have you done?” right after Dean had told Marlon. And Marlon’s “Oh dear. So soon? What a shame. Things were just starting to get interesting,” when they said they had to leave right after that.

_He meant it. We’d given him interesting info. Fucking hell!_

Dean sucks on his cigarette, squirming on the inside. He _likes_ Marlon, and he likes the whole family. The part’s he’s met at least. No. Maybe not Anna. But his bias is fucking strong, the way she pretends Nick’s dead still pisses him off. Marlon hadn’t done that. Yet he’s still a fucking traitor for not hating Marlon. He can _see_ his reasoning. It makes perfect sense and protects _everyone_. It’s when you zoom in and see the individual picture it starts getting really fucked up. 

“So what did Marlon use as a threat, to make Mike cut Nick off?” Dean asks out loud.

_If Mike wanted to protect Nick from som―_

His phone rings, startling him out of his train of thoughts. He looks at the caller ID, then answers the call. “Heya, babe.”

“I miss you, darling,” Nick says.

“I miss ya too.” Dean’s gut churns in guilt.

“Good. Then maybe you can tell me where you are? I’m back in the city.”

_ShitShitShit!_

Nick was supposed to come home tomorrow. He’d have more time to come up with good lies about what he’d been doing.

_How the hell am I supposed to hide what I’ve been up to?_

“Still at the Blue Lotus. Room number 13.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Great! See you soon then. Bye.” Dean hangs up without waiting for an answer and proceeds to panic.

* * *


	78. Who’s In Control?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter warnings:** Domestic violence, sensitive readers beware.

* * *

# Who’s In Control?

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 9 months) Dean’s known Nick for 3 years

Dean’s hidden the notebook in the nightstand drawer, squished his cig and is now waiting by the bed, standing with his hands in his pockets, looking at the door. It’s unlocked, and Nick tries the handle instead of knocking. Dean feels like a frightened hare caught in the headlights on a highway, when the door opens.

Mavis comes bounding in first, ecstatic about seeing him again. He goes down on a knee to pet him and gets thoroughly licked in the face while Mavis lets out little high pitched yips.

“Hey, that’s my job, Mave!” Nick says laughing as he comes in and drops the bag on the floor. He puts Mavis’ crate in the bathroom.

Dean gets to his feet and Nick comes striding with a huge smile and warm glittering eyes. Mavis scuttles out of the way just in time before Nick sweeps Dean up in his arms for a hug and his lips are on Dean’s. Nick smells so good, feels so good in his arms, tastes _so good_.

The part in Dean that normally would be sagging in relief at having him back can’t get release because of the guilt clogging up its way. He can feel how Nick relaxes in his arms, how he melts into it like he can finally breathe again. The guilty pressure inside of Dean screams like a boiling teakettle.

Nick breaks the kiss enough to lean back and look at his face. Smiling, he caresses Dean’s cheek tenderly. “Look at you. You’ve shaved. I like it when you’re shaved. I can see all of those gorgeous freckles properly.”

Dean grins. It feels like Nick must see how hollow the expression is. The muscles stretch on their own accord, mimicking a cheeky grin. Inside, he writhes and wants to cower away in shame. “Yeah? I like it when you wear glasses, but you sure as hell don’t grant me the pleasure very often.”

“Nag at me about it. I forget how much you like it, darling.” Nick has trimmed down his beard. He still looks like a lumberjack, but to Dean he’s hot no matter how he looks. An image of what he would look in an old-school, tailored three-piece suit flashes in Dean’s head, racking up the guilt even more.

“Nah. I’ll walk around being resentful for you forgetting, instead. Much more effective,” Dean jokes.

Nick sniggers and kisses the tip of his nose. “You keep telling yourself that, darling. So what have you been up to while I’ve been gone?”

_’Genealogy’, ‘Gave Sam a gift’, ‘Dug something up on Mike’, ‘Nothing in particular’, lie, lie, lie! Dammit! Lie to him now!_

“I kissed a guy.” _Perfect. Great job._

Nick’s smile freezes on his face. His cheeks turn white, then red. His lips draw into a thin, tight line and he backs away from Dean. “You kissed a guy,” he states calmly, pulse jumping in his throat and eyes shifting colour, getting darker.

“Yeah.” Dean keeps up eye contact. He isn’t smiling anymore. He shrinks in on himself slightly, heart hammering so hard it’s painful and feeling like he’s about to throw up.

“I see.” There’s a storm brewing in Nick’s eyes, face cold and voice low. He abruptly turns around, scoops Mavis up, grabs Mavis’ bunny from his bag, and carries both of them to Mavis’ crate. He puts Mavis inside with his favourite plush bunny, then closes the bathroom door. 

Dean’s scared shitless of what’s coming.

Nick comes to stand in front of him again but not as close. He crosses one arm in front of his chest, rests his elbow on it, and pulls on his lower lip, fixing Dean with his cold, _cold_ stare. “I’m gone for less than a week, hurry home to celebrate our third anniversary, and you’ve been sucking face with someone else while I was away?” he asks calmly.

“Yeah.” Dean shrinks in on himself even more.

“Pray tell, what do you expect me to _do_ with this information?”

“I dunno. Leave me? Punish me?”

Nick steps closer. “Do you _want_ me to leave you?”

“ _No._ Jeezu―” Dean’s reply is cut short by a backhand that makes him see stars. Nick grabs his shirt to stabilize him and promptly follows it up with a flying fist that splits Dean’s lip, making him taste blood.

“ _Who is he?_ ” Nick demands.

“ _Nobody_. Does it matter? Just some guy.” Dean cowers, waiting for the next hit. He’s not disappointed. The next hit is a hard slap that burns and stings, making his eye water.

“Just _some guy_? For the love of―! What the hell were you thinking?!”

_I deserve it. I deserve all of it. I cheated. I’m a traitor. A fucking lowlife._

“I was thinking that he was a bigoted asshole and I wanted to freak him out!” Dean’s voice is high-pitched.

“So you used a kiss as a weapon?”

“It woulda worked! I hadn’t expected him to kiss back!”

Nick lets go of him to throw his arms up. “Of course it works! For someone like _me_.” He thumps Dean harshly in the chest with a finger. “You on the other hand. Have you seen you? You’re the _exception_.”

“The fuck you talking about?”

“You know how you read interviews with celebrities and they say they’re straight, but if Chris Evans made a pass on them, they’d make an exception? _You’re_ the Chris Evans of ordinary people. You’re the exception! You’re the ‘I hate fags, but if _Dean Winchester_ ―’”

“Williams,” Dean cuts in.

“Come again?”

“It’s Dean Williams. Unless you’re gonna divorce me.” It’d still be Williams. Nick can’t take his new name from him.

Nick stares at him, lips a tight line, red in the face, _furious._ His fist clench and unclench at his side and Dean cowers but keeps eye contact.

“What did you _do_ when he kissed back?”

“I kissed him again.” Nick grabs his shirt and pulls back his other fist to hit again. Time always seems to slow in situations like this, and Dean suddenly remembers Mike’s reaction when Dean almost hit him. “ _Rules!Face!_ ” Dean gets out just before Nick’s about to clock him. Nick’s fist changes direction, taking him in the diaphragma instead. Dean doubles over, breath punched out of him. He falls to his knees, grabbing at his stomach and struggling to suck in breath.

_Rules. As rebellious as Nick might be, he’s still a stickler for rules. He didn’t hit me before I told him to punish me. He didn’t hit my face because I reminded him of rules **I’ve** never given him. But Mike had. ‘Not the face or father will persecute.’ Jail. Mike would take a beating and still protect Nick from getting locked up. That’s what he was protecting Nick from. **Prison**!_

Now is an exceedingly bad time to get revelations. Nick crouches down and grabs Dean’s hair, bending his face upward. Nick’s eyes are black. Everything about him is hard, but he’s calm, and when he speaks, his voice is deceptively soft. “Did you fuck him?”

“No,” Dean croaks.

“Why not? You’d already crossed the line. Why not go all the way?”

Dean finds his breath and gulps down air. “Because I’m married to you, and I don’t want to be a cheater.”

Nick shoves him away, making him fall backwards, and stands up. “Is there anything else you want to tell me about what you’ve been doing while I was away?”

“I had a couple drinks.”

“So did I. Dicky has a very competent kennelmaster in his employ. Mavis was in good hands and I enjoyed a couple of drinks while I had the opportunity. That’s not a punishable crime. Although, I appreciate you telling me, since your withdrawal symptoms might be bad. I will see them for what they are if you start acting up.”

Dean sits up. “So you ain’t leaving me?”

“I wouldn’t have to kick your ass if I was leaving, would I?” Nick snaps irritably.

It makes perfect sense to Dean. He’d fessed up his crime, and he’s willingly facing the repercussions. Once this blows over, Nick will no longer have the right to hold the infidelity against him. By hurting him and staying put, he accepts that the punishment is enough to pay for the indiscretion.

Nick crouches down again. “So now what, Dean? Will you mack on some other guy the next time I turn my back?”

“No.”

“How can I trust that, darling? I trusted you not to do it in the first place.”

“You can’t.”

Anger flashes in Nick’s eyes and he makes a grab for Dean’s shirt again, drawing his arm back for a punch.

“Just like I can’t trust the promise you gave me after you kicked me while I was down,” Dean hastens to add. “You promised you’d never hurt me again, yet lo and behold.”

Nick’s arm freezes and his nostrils flare. Slowly he lowers his arm and lets go of Dean’s shirt. He gets up and takes two steps away from Dean, breathing roughly but not saying anything.

Dean gets to his feet. “While we’re at it, I might as well tell you. I’ve been investigating Mike’s disappearance.”

“That’s good,” Nick answers curtly.

“Yeah, it is. I’ve found out a shitload of new info, that might help us find out what the fuck happened to him.”

“Oookay?” Nick says narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Something about Dean’s body language must be giving away that there’s another shoe about to drop.

“I went to his office. I spoke to your dad.”

Nick grabs a nearby chair and hurls it at the opposite wall. It splinters into pieces. “ _I specifically forbade you to speak with him!_ ” he yells.

“Yeah, and it was fucking stupid!” Dean yells back. “You were being fucking dumb! You refused to look into one option because of your own stupid hatred! We’re doing all this _to find Mike!_ Fucking man up, and be tactical instead of an emotionally driven dumbass! The mission is what’s important!”

Nick bares his teeth and strides straight up to Dean, fists clenched at his sides. He looks furious on the wrong side of sanity, blowing himself up bigger, he leans over Dean, so close their noses are almost touching. But Dean ain’t cowering back for this. Speaking with Marlon had been the right thing to do, sucking face with him had not. He meets angry stare for stare and goes on speaking before Nick has a chance to spit blame and vitriol. “The mission is everything, _soldier_. We had a job to do, and you couldn’t do it, so _I_ did. The sheer amount of intel it gave us was fucking worth it. I don’t give a shit about what your old man did to you and how you feel about him. He had information we needed, and he had the keys to Mike’s office. A mental chess game with the leopard king gave me access to it, and _because I fucking did that_ , I now know why Mike pushed you away after the disownment. I know how he still felt about you, and that he was protecting you _from your dumbass fucking self!_ ”

Dean can feel warm blood from his split lower lip run down his chin in the thundering silence that follows.

“I love you, Nicky, but sometimes you’re a moron,” Dean adds, in case Nick doubts it in the wake of Dean’s infidelity confession.

Nick breathes roughly for another tense moment before he finally deflates and averts his gaze. “I, uh, I need to get some air. Walk this off. I’ll be back as soon as I don’t want to tear this motel down brick by brick…” he says quietly.

“I’ll be here. But keep your eyes with you, okay? Last thing we need right now is having the cops get ya.”

“Sure.”

Nick backs off without looking up, and heads for the door. Once the door closes behind him Dean lets out a shuddering breath. He sucks on his bleeding lower lip. 

_That went well._

The crushing guilt is gone. He’s still apprehensive about how the rest of the talk is going to go, but nowhere nearly as badly as if he’d chosen to lie about everything. Now he can tell Nick about almost everything, barring the kiss and the magnetic pull Marlon has on him. He could tell him enough to power them forward in their investigation. Enough to hopefully repair the trust issues. 

_I’m **NEVER** gonna tell him _ who _I kissed, that’s for damned sure._

He goes to the bathroom and opens the door. Mavis is in his unlocked crate, chewing furiously on his bunny. He’s chewed a hole in it and pulled the stuffing out, but his whole being radiates angst, so unlike his other stuffed toys that he empties of stuffing, this had been a nervous thing. He comes out of the crate whining pitifully and goes straight to Dean. 

“Hey, Mave,” Dean coos softly and lifts him up. “Don’t worry, little one. Your papa’s alright. Your daddy too. We just had a little fight because I let a bigger dog sniff my butt. Your daddy doesn’t like other dogs sniffing his mate. We’re alright, okay?”

Mavis licks the blood of his chin and wags his tail experimentally. Dean chuckles. “That’s right. Everything is fine, little one.” He scratches Mavis behind an ear and strokes his head until the dog’s relaxed. “I need to patch myself up, but I’ll take care of Mr. Bunny first, okay? He’s in a much worse shape than I am.”

He puts Mavis down, goes to fetch the first aid kit, then collects the stuffing and the toy. He sits down on the bed. Mavis jumps up beside him and watches him with keen eyes as he puts the stuffing back and sews the toy shut with a surgical needle and some floss. He gives the bunny back and goes to the bathroom, bringing the first aid kit. Mavis trots after with the bunny in his mouth. His tail is held high. Say what you want about dogs, but they recuperate fast. Dean washes his face and lip, then stitches his lip together with two stitches, looking in the mirror while he works. It hurts like a bitch and it ain’t fucking easy, but he manages. He goes back into the room and cleans up, takes two painkillers, washing them down with some soda from the minibar, lights a cigarette and lies down on the bed. Mavis jumps up beside him still carrying the bunny, and curls into a ball by his side.

When Nick comes back Mavis is stretched out fast asleep, snoring loudly while Dean continuously pets him.

“Hey…” Nick says carefully, standing apprehensively by the door.

“Hey,” Dean answers with a tiny smile.

Nick shifts on his feet and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry for…” he gestures at Dean’s face.

“I’m sorry I cheated on ya.”

“Yes, but it was only kissing. It was, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I should have heard you out before I…”

“I was asking for it.”

“No you weren’t. You were―”

Dean cuts him off. “Yeah, I really was. I was hoping you’d punish me so I didn’t have to feel so fucking guilty. I knew I did something wrong. The first kiss mighta been solely to provoke. But then I kissed him twice more before I could rein myself in. I knew I did wrong. My whole inside was screaming ‘Dean, whattafuck are you doing?!’ at me. I like kissing, but I don’t want to cheat. He thought I was mocking him, proving that he too was into guys. So I pretended that was the reason I had kept kissing. It wasn’t. I liked it. I’m a sucker for it.”

Nick’s eyes travel over the room, avoiding Dean. His face is soft and sad and there’s no anger there. “Still. It was just kissing. I don’t… I won’t say I don’t care. But it’s not the kissing part that upsets me. It’s that you did it behind my back. I’m scared of losing you.”

“You won’t.”

Nick looks back at him. “Why did you tell me?”

“Secrets almost ruined us. I made a mistake, but I chose to do it. Figured you should get to choose if you could forgive me or not.” Dean picks his pack of cigarette up from the bed and lights another cig. Beside him Mavis wuffs quietly in his sleep. His paws twitches as if he’s chasing something. Both Dean and Nick looks at him, their lips quirking in identical small smiles.

“Fair enough. You’re forgiven. This isn’t the first time I’ve been jealous after all. Jessica? I was so jealous you have no idea. I know you didn’t actually want to fuck her, but it still got to me and…” Nick takes a deep breath and lets it out. “And I was jealous of you too, because you got to knock her up,” he confesses.

“Really? I thought you didn’t want kids?”

“I don’t. But in case it passed you by, I have a breeding kink a mile wide.” Nick gives him a muted smirk.

Dean chuckles. “Yeah. Does it make any sense that I’m jealous of Jess for getting to _be_ knocked up?”

“I suppose it does.”

“I don’t want to be a dad, but hell if I wouldn’t want to be a mom. Anytime you come inside of me I wish I could have your babies. When you rub your nose against my tummy and stroke it as if there’s an actual baby inside, I envy every bitch with a working womb in this world,” Dean admits, feeling his cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

“You know that’s pure dirty talk to me, right? You say things like that and I just want to bend you over and fill you up.” Nick’s posture becomes relaxed and cheeky.

A thrill runs down Dean’s spine, wakes butterflies up in his belly and tickles his dick to twitch in interest. “Yeah? You ever knocked someone up for real?”

Nick shakes his head. “Not that I know of. I’ve used condoms most of the time, and when I don’t I’ve often pulled out unless she’s claimed to be on the pill. I always hoped... “ Nick sighs wistfully. “It drives me completely mad when I bareback and see my own come leak out of a pussy or even an ass. It makes no sense when it comes to guys, but the effect it has on me is the same. It turns me on so much I want to do it again straight away.”

“I’ve noticed,” Dean says with a lopsided smirk.

“Mhm. You’re the first guy I’ve met who dirty talks me that way. Our first time in the alley? Maybe if I hadn’t loved you so much I would’ve managed to keep myself from ripping the condom off, but as it were, my feelings for you were too strong to begin with. I _had_ to rip it off.”

“If you woulda told me that you were about to do it, I mighta come from you telling me alone, in the mindset I was in right then.”

They grin at each other and Nick adjusts himself in his pants.

“So,” Dean says. “As much as I’m longing to have you make another go at knocking me up, can we get the elephant out of the room first?”

Nick nods and looks away. “Why did you go talk to him despite me telling you not to? We could have discussed it.”

Dean takes a drag of his cigarette. “No, we couldn’t. Remember, you said, and I quote verbatim, ‘I said _no_. It’s not up for discussion. Period.’ Those are your words, Nicky.”

“And yet you went there.”

“I’m not your slave. I need to see the wisdom in a decision. I couldn’t, because it was dumb, and it meant shooting ourselves in the foot. I get why you don’t want anything to do with him. And yeah, he’d probably would have set the feds on you. But he didn’t go for me because believe it or not, he seems to regard me as collateral damage in a conflict I had nothing to do with.”

“He hates you.”

Dean shakes his head and takes another deep pull on his cigarette. “You know what? I don’t think he does. And the timing was perfect. You were safely tucked away out of sight, so I couldn’t lead them to ya if I was followed.”

Nick finally walks towards the bed. He takes his own pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and taps one out, puts it in his mouth, lights it, and puts the pack back in his pocket. “He doesn’t hate you,” he states in a skeptical tone that more than well conveys how much he doesn’t believe it.

“He says he doesn’t. He says he’s realised that me an’ Sam were as much victims of dad’s breakdown as he was.”

Nick sits down on the side of the bed. Mavis wakes up when the bed dips, gets up to kiss Nick hello, forcing him to take the cig out of his mouths and hold it out of the way when Mavis tries to lick his mouth. “Yes, yes. I love you too, now that’s enough,” Nick tells the dog and pushes him off of him. Mavis grins his dog grin and scampers back to Dean’s side to lie down again. “And you believed him?” Nick scoffs once the dog-greeting is out of the way.

“Dude. It’s like 25 years ago. One would fucking hope that his temper tantrum has cooled down since.”

“You didn’t see him back then.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t see him now. People _can_ change over time, baby.”

“Fair enough. Let’s pretend he doesn’t hate you because you’re a Winchester―”

“Williams,” Dean corrects.

Nick halts and look at him for a long time, like the reminder confuses him somehow.

“I think that part is important, when dealing with your old man,” Dean clarifies, starting to feel self-conscious about it, as if he did something wrong and don’t deserve the name.

“Possibly. I’m sorry, Dean, sometimes I just don’t get why you act as if being married to me is something to be proud of. One part of me still fears you’re just in it for the ruse. Especially when you’re sitting there with a split lip because I lost control.”

Dean almost calls him out on it. Nick hadn’t lost control. He was in full control every second of their fight. Instead he smirks. “Is this some trick to get me to say I love you again? I do. You know that already.”

Nick bends his head and snorts in amusement. He reaches out to lay a hand on Dean’s leg, but hesitates as if he’s unsure if he’s allowed. When Dean makes no move to withdraw he lowers it to rest on Dean’s thigh. “I know. I just… anyway. So maybe dad doesn’t hate you because of your name, as unlikely as it seems to me. You still humiliated him publicly at the ball.”

Dean taps ashes of his cigarette into a glass on the nightstand. “Yeah, and I think we fucked up at the ball. But not because of the humiliation. I think I fucked up when I told him I’d met you at Mike’s place. I believe it made him think you and Mike are back together, and _that’s_ what started all this. I also think he knows either where Mike is, or who really took him.”

“Back together. You make it sound like we were dating.”

“Yeah, but you were, weren’t you? The way I’ve gathered your relationship used to be, you were an item in every way except for sex. Fuck, man, you even slept in the same bed. Who does that?”

Nick looks at his lap, cheeks going red. He looks ashamed and quietly takes a drag on his cigarette. He leaves the cig pinched between his lips and scrapes with a nail over a stain on his pants. 

“I’m not being a judgemental dick about it, baby,” Dean goes on. “I kinda get where you’re coming from. Kinda. I’m not saying it’s not a bit fucked up, but it’s not like you’re gonna have babies together with an IQ of 43. Which, when you think about it, is why sibling incest is wrong. Not the love part, but the mixing of a too small gene pool. Mike loves you to death, Nicky. I’m thinking, ain’t nothin’ he wouldn’t do for ya.”

“He used to.” Nick blows out smoke through his nose and sucks in new with his mouth. It’s a talent you develop when you need to work with both hands and smoke at the same time.

“Still does. He didn’t tell you to fuck off because he wanted to. He was protecting you. He still loves you, baby.”

Nick looks up and takes the cigarette from his mouth. “How do you know?”

“I found something,” Dean says and takes a drag on his cigarette before dropping the butt in the glass. “In his office. He had a hidden compartment in a wooden file cabinet. There were pictures of you and pictures of me. More importantly, there was a notebook. I’d offer to leave you alone while you read it, but I think that would be a stupid mistake. I cried like a fucking baby when reading it. I’m afraid you’re going to, too. And while that’s not a problem, you might get mad, wanting to lash out against your old man. _That_ might be a problem. Especially before we’ve found Mike. So if you’re okay with it, I’d like to stick around.”

“Yes. I want you around for it, if it’s as emotional as you say it will be.”

“If you’ve got a heart, it is.” Dean pats the bed beside him. Nick crawls up and lies down beside him. He leans over to kiss Dean. It stings a bit in Dean’s damaged, swollen lip, but it brings the relief he’s waited for, about Nick being at home again. After they’ve kissed for a moment Dean tears himself away before they get sidetracked and everything goes X-rated. He reaches for the drawer in the nightstand, opens it and takes out the notebook. He puts it on Nick’s belly. Nick picks it up and a couple of photos fall out. Nick looks at the photos of himself and Dean can see him get emotional about it, even if he doesn’t say anything.

It turns into a long day and a long night. It would seem that every time they hit one of the pages of Mike’s one-sided conversations with him, Nick’s heart breaks. And the prayers fucking destroy him. Dean has to hold him while he cries, stop him from rushing away to give Marlon a piece of his mind, comfort him when he cries again. On top of that he doesn’t dare leaving Nick alone, so he takes him along walking Mavis, never letting his hand go in case he’d bolt. Dean orders takeout and insists on both of them eating. He cleans up when Nick destroys the other chair in a fit of rage, then holds him while he cries again. It’s rough on Nick. But twelve hours later Nick’s calm enough to be needy. They make love, and Nick falls asleep 3:30 AM, exhausted.

Dean’s woken by a hand touching his split lip lightly. “Nick…?”

“I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to do this.”

“Hey. It’s okay. I wanted it, remember?” Dean mumbles sleepily into the darkness.

“Still. I lost control. I shouldn’t have.”

Dean’s suddenly wide awake and pissy. “Yeah, no.” He sits up and lights the lamp. Mavis is sleeping on a pile of clothes on the floor, and Nick’s lying beside Dean, looking remorseful. Dean grabs his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. “I’m gonna call you out on that bullshit,” he says while he lights a cigarette. “Marlon an’ Mike, and the rest of the fucking world might buy it, but I sure as hell don’t.”

“What are you talking about?” Nick questions, scrunching his face up in a mixture of confusion and annoyance. 

Dean points at him with the two fingers holding his cigarette. “You were in control the whole fucking time, and you know it.”

“I w―” Nick begins to protest.

“Shut up. You were. From start to finish. Exhibit A. I told you I kissed a guy. You knew there was gonna be a fight and that it wasn’t gonna be pretty, so you made sure Mave was in safety and out of the way. Hell, you even made sure he had something to calm himself with by bringing him Mr. Bunny. The reason you knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, is that you knew how _you_ were gonna act. I was submissive. I was no threat. Worst case scenario I’d walk off.” Dean pauses to take a drag on the cigarette.

Nick’s mouth is a thin line. He’s looking guardedly at Dean but doesn’t say anything.

“Exhibit B. You asked me what was expected from you by asking what you were supposed to do about it. I said leave me or punish me. You asked if I wanted you to leave. The moment I said no, you immediately went into punishing me. You had gotten your answer of how you were supposed to act so you let your anger out. In. Fucking. Control.”

Nick opens his mouth to answer, but Dean holds his fingers up to stop him. “Shut up. Still not done. Exhibit C. You hit me in the face, but when I told you to think about the rules and not hit me in the face, you changed your punch midthrow. Control. You’re a fucking stickler for rules. I’m not. I don’t give a shit about rules. How often did you disobey an order in the army? I want you to answer that.”

“Never.”

“Exactly. Me on the other hand,” Dean chuckles humorlessly. “If I hadn’t been smart about it, they’da kicked me out a million times over. But my mind was always on solving the problem, succeeding with the mission. I never disobeyed because I was humiliated, angry, or bored. I disobeyed because I found better ways to solve a situation, or because I got information that I couldn’t wait long enough to relay and get processed. _My_ disobedience always landed me on my feet and saved asses. But not you. You’ve said it yourself. You’re an insecure mess inside who second guess your decisions over and over. You’re smart and resourceful, and have a need to act, but you’d rather have someone tell you how. That’s why Mike never could stop you from doing idiotic shit, but he could steer you somewhat if he helped you. You prefer to work with what you’ve got directly in front of you, with things you can see. So Mike and you make a great team since he thinks bigger.”

Dean pauses to take another breath of smoke. Nick swallows and keeps quiet, waiting.

“Exhibit D. You practically had steam coming out of your ears when I told you I’d talked with Marlon. You were furious. But when I challenged you, standing up for my action when I’d been submissive and accepting of your anger before, you doubted yourself. Instead of beating the crap outta me, you walked it off. So there you have it. In complete control the whole time. I don’t think Mike and Marlon get how extremely disciplined you really are. Though, it was something Marlon said that made me think of it.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me he’d seen you have a panic attack in an elevator and had to hold you through it reminding you how to breathe. That’s true, right?”

“Yes.”

“Right. At a later point he said he was proud of you. He was proud that you’d made it through your military training despite the shit they throw at us. You’re special forces so your training musta been ten times worse, and I know I was stuck in a lot of tight spaces both in combat and during training. Your dad was proud of you for overcoming your crippling fear.”

“He said that?”

“Yeah, he did. Anyway, what I don’t think anyone who doesn’t know you as a soldier, who hasn’t seen combat, realise, is the discipline it takes to be one. They don’t get it. They don’t get that a misplaced tantrum would get you killed or kicked out. You’re as in control as your old man is. And just like him, you do what’s expected of you. You want rules and guidelines. And once you’ve got ‘em, you stick to ‘em. Had I answered that I expected you to keep calm until Friday, when you asked what you were supposed to do after I told you I cheated, you woulda. Sure, you woulda been steaming with fury, but you’d have waited until the leash was off and you were allowed to attack. And your old man don’t get that about you. Neither does Mike. And I think it’s because the dynamics between you two are rock solid. And when it comes to your dad,” Dean snorts in amusement, “defying him _is_ the mission, you feel me?”

Nick looks thoughtful. Dean offers him the cigarette. He takes it and takes a drag.

“I can give you more examples of your control if you like. Cuz I think you mighta been told that you’ve lost control many times when you haven’t. And you believe it too.”

“Please do.”

“Big Jay. The giant I fucked when you decided to have a threesome. When I told you to stop, you did.”

“I still exploded on him.”

“Yeah, but I liked it. You fought for me. And you’re so fucking hot when you unleash the lion. I liked it and I fucking encouraged it. You made me feel worth fighting for.”

“You are.”

“Yet precious few have. Another example. When you went AWOL. I demanded that you never do it again, or I would find you and gut you like a fish. You agreed to that and you’ve kept that promise. One more example. The pretty bruises you gave me before you left to go visit Dicky? You stopped in the middle when you thought you’d gone to far. You didn’t start up again until I’d given you the rules we were playing by. You’re a lot of things, babe. Out of control ain’t one of them. We don’t always play be the same rules. We shouldn’t, cuz some of the things that work for you only ticks me off and vice versa. But I trust you to be in control. And I expect you to be. The others don’t. The violence in you scares them.” Dean sniggers. “The violence in you makes _me_ pop a boner.”

Nick chortles. “Anything makes you pop a boner.”

“ _Eyyy,_ ” Dean protests with a grin.

“Where’s the lie?”

“So what? I might be a bitch in heat, but you’re a horndog.”

Nick blows out smoke and drops the cig in the glass. He heaves himself up over Dean. “Indeed. A horndog who’s going to fill your belly up with puppies, riiight about, _now_ ,” he purrs.

Dean fucking giggles, falling down in a lying position. He thrills in excitement and rolls his hips to meet Nick’s. “Fuck yeah.”

* * *


	79. Stone Mirror

* * *

# Stone Mirror

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 9 months) Dean’s known Nick for 3 years

Nick brings it up over dinner at their anniversary. They’ve dressed up and are eating in a fancy restaurant. It’s a risk, but nobody’s recognised them. “I’ve been thinking about it,” Nick says apropos nothing. He’s wearing his glasses and it’s driving Dean to distraction.

“About what?”

“About control. About why you can control me, just like they could in the army, while Mike never could.”

“And why’s that?” Dean asks and stuffs a piece of steak in his mouth. Nick had planned this outing while he was at Dicky’s, so Dean had woken up to someone knocking at their door. Roman’s kennelmaster had been waiting outside. He was to take care of Mavis until tomorrow. They had a dog-free 24 hours. Dean loves Mavis to bits, but he gets parents now. It’s a luxury to be free to go to a movie and eat at a restaurant and do other activities where you can’t bring a dog.

“Because you promise me release. Either that or you give clear consequences I can understand and believe. But mostly, you promise release. They did that in the army too. Everything I got boiling inside, they said to wait. I can wait. But they’d set me loose later. They didn’t expect me to just stop. Neither do you.”

“Oy, it’s part of who you are,” Dean answers, chipmunking the meat into his cheek so he can talk. “Told ya, I love you for it.”

“You did, yes. I’ve overanalyzed myself to hell and back, darling, but I’ve never looked at it that way. It was interesting.”

Dean chews and swallows. “In that case, I promise you, I will always make sure you get to unleash your lion. If I ever tell you to hold it off, I promise to make sure you can let it go at a better time.”

Nick grins. “Fair enough. In that case, I promise I’ll always listen to you when you tell me to hold back, no matter how mad I am.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“I never break my word.”

Dean’s happy and content. Nick’s keeping it together about Mike’s notebook for now. But Dean suspects, that if Marlon’s involved in Mike’s disappearance like Dean thinks he is, then he might very well have to hold Nick to that promise. Speaking of… “I’ve been thinking too, about where to go next in our mission to find Mike.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Mike’s room at the estate. Maybe we can find more clues there, considering he had a hidden compartment at his office, and that he’d left you a secret message in your room at the estate. The moss rosebud?”

Nick rubs a hand over his mouth and scratches his beard. “My initial reaction is to say no. You really think the ‘he’ in the offer was about me?”

“Yeah, I do. And maybe if we go there, we’ll find something that’ll tell us what the offer was about. Trade places, how?”

“Take my spot as your husband?” Nick suggests.

“I doubt it. You read the notebook. He doesn’t think I ever loved him. He has no reason to think I would agree to something like that. And what’s that got to do with him disappearing?”

“Mmh. True. Fair enough. Let’s do it. Let’s go home to the estate. I don’t feel comfortable taking Mavis there, though, in case dad finds out and calls the feds. But I can call Dicky and ask if he can keep her for a few more days.”

“Sounds good. Hey, you never did explain about Dick. You promised you’d tell me when you got home.”

Nick grins happily at him. “He proposed to Hannah. He’s head over heels for her. She’s been mooning over him since forever, but it was only a few years ago that he realised she’s a woman, no longer an annoying, snot-nosed, tag-along kid sister. He started hanging out with her, then courting her, and finally proposed two years ago. She said yes, of course, but when you marry in our circles, not counting black sheep such as myself, you have to negotiate a prenup. And dad met hard with hard. Dicky thinks dad’s trying to use the liaison to acquisition Dicky’s assets. Dad’s making it next to impossible to agree since all his propositions would snub Dicky if the marriage went down the drain.”

Dean chuckles, thinking about Marlon’s complaints about the same thing. “You trust Dick not to rob _you_ of your family’s assets?”

Nick shrugs dismissively. “I doubt it. He’s a close friend and Hannah came over while I was there. I was surprised at how happy she was to see me.” He smiles when he says that. “Of all my sisters, I missed her the most. She even let me braid her hair again.”

Dean chuckles.

“Anyway, I got to see them together. Both of them look stupidly in love. I have no reason to suspect that Dicky isn’t sincere. I was sceptical at first. He used to whore around with the best of us. Now? No.”

“Huh. Yeah, I'd be much more sceptical of Dick if it wasn’t for what he did for me at our wedding. But he’s in my good book.”

“It was a bribe. He _is_ a friend, though. We have precious few at the top. He won’t cross us.” Nick pauses to take a sip of red wine. “Plus, I spent a whole night recounting ways I've killed people. I think the message got through,” he adds offhandedly. 

Dean bursts out laughing. He laughs so hard people turn in their chairs to give him bemused or annoyed looks.

* * *

They stumble into the motel room kissing. Nick kicks the door shut behind them and pushes Dean’s suit jacket off his shoulders. They break for air.

“I need something to drink,” Dean says. 

“Give me a Mountain Dew, will you?” Nick bids him and kisses him again. It’s hard not to get swept up in Nick’s wine stained kisses, but Dean’s fucking thirsty. He tears himself away with a little giggle and goes to the minibar. There he crouches down to see if they've got the requested soda. Behind him, Nick picks up Dean’s suit jacket to hang it up. Dean hears a clicking sound but thinks nothing of it.

“What’s this?” Nick asks. Dean throws a look over his shoulder and goes cold when he sees what Nick’s holding in his hand, and is frowning in bemusement at. Blood drains from Dean's face and forms a lump of ice in his stomach. The click he heard was from the black velvet box opening. He'd forgotten all about it. It must have fallen out when the jacket landed on the floor. Nick takes the rock out and holds it up to the light. “Did you steal it?”

Dean stands up slowly. “Uh. Your… your dad gave it to me.”

Nick’s head snaps up. “He _gave it_ to you?” he repeats. 

“Um, yeah. Said it reminded him of me.”

Nick’s face goes dark. “You must have gotten real chummy. How many times did you cosy up to him for him to realise this is what you are?” Nick asks in his deceptive calm way that signifies fury.

“I searched him out. He invited me home for a drink and we talked. The next day I fact checked, realised I had to ask him a coupla things and called him. After that, I went to the office. That’s where he gave it to me.”

Nick’s face twists in a nasty grimace. He hurls the stone at the wall behind Dean with all the force he can muster. 

“Don’t break it!” Dean holds his hands out palms bent up in a pleading stop-gesture as the stone bounces back to land on the floor between them. 

“Don’t _BREAK IT???_ ” Nick expression is somewhere between outrage and bafflement. He throws his hands up and looks skywards, breaking out in a frightening near hysterical giddy but humorless laughter. Then he abruptly stops and stares at Dean, eyes wide as if _Dean’s_ the one gone mad. “Don’t break it?” he repeats. 

“I know I probably shouldn't have accepted it. But he said it represented me. He said I had a way of twisting compliments to something negative but I couldn't reshape that into anything that wasn't beautiful.”

Nick’s still staring dumbfounded at him, so Dean goes on. “It’s just a piece of useless stone, I know that. But it’s pretty. I know a corner is all dirty on the inside, and the edges are all rough, but the middle is clear. I kinda like the analogy. I'll throw it away, I swear, but it’s still pretty. So please don't break it. If I drop it on the ground maybe someone will find it that sees value in it. Like, like a kid, or one of those new age freaks. They like crystal and shit, don’t they? I mean, it's worthless to me,” Dean babbles. 

Nick goes to pick up the stone and look at it. He breathes on it and watches the condense immediately dissipate from its surface. “Do you know what this is?”

“Yeah, it's a gemstone of some kind. It came in a velvet box so it's gotta be, right?”

Nick looks blankly at Dean. 

“It _is_ , isn’t it?” Dean asks, starting to doubt. 

“Yes…” Nick answers, tone drifting and stares at the stone. “I'm jealous.”

“You want it? You can have it. Take it, it's yours,” Dean hastens to say. “It’s trash to me.”

Nick looks up at him. His eyes are sad. He goes to sit on the bed and pats the spot beside him. Dean comes obediently and sits down apprehensively. “I'm jealous of dad for thinking of giving it to you. I could never afford it, but had I known you'd attach yourself to it and value the analogy, I would have gotten you one either way. You really don't know what it is?”

Dean shakes his head, feeling a tendril of something he can’t name grow in his chest. Hope, perhaps? 

“It makes me sad. To hear you say this rock represents you, and in the next breath call it pretty but worthless, talking about someone else finding it and perhaps finding value in it,” Nick says. All his initial anger is long gone. “It pisses me off that dad gave it to you. He’s got a knack for reading people, pin them down, then say what he needs to say, or do what he needs to do, to get what _he_ wants. It puts the sincerity of his gesture to the question. But it took one meeting for him to see you like l and Mikey see you, so I'm going to let it slide this time, and vouch for his sincerity. I hope it won't bite me in the ass in the future. That you won't let yourself be bought over because of it.” He takes Dean’s hand and places the rock in his palm, then closes Dean’s fingers around it. He smiles warmly. “Keep it, darling. And whenever you feel like trash, like you too often refer to yourself as, remember that this is what we've seen when we've found you. You’re a raw diamond, darling.”

Dean sucks in a breath. “ _Diamond?_ ”

Nick grins. “You really didn't know dad got you a diamond in the rough?”

“Nu-uh. Not the faintest clue,” Dean admits sheepishly and blushes. Though his cheeks heat up more due to elation. He opens his hand and stares at the―to him―innocuous rock. 

Nick leans against him and kisses his temple. “Happy anniversary, baby.”

Nick manages to make Marlon’s gift come from him too, and later he uses the stone during foreplay, caressing Dean’s heated skin with its cold surface, making it more meaningful. Dean never wants to turn it in to be cut, even if it would increase its market value. He wants to wear it, and decides that when all this is over he'll find a way to do so.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Diamonds disipate heat very well. Therefore, if you exhale on a diamond the condense will remain less than three seconds, while other stones that look similar to diamonds retain the layer of condense longer. If you lay a diamond over text, you can't read it, which you can if the diamond is fake. Diamonds are very scratch resistant, but they can scratch each other so keep diamonds separated in your jewlery box.


	80. Blood And Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaaah! I'm so excited for this chapter! :D I hope you'll like it as much as I do. ^^'   
> Also, unplanned porn happened because Dean can't keep his mind out of the gutter. I had nothing to do with it, I swear!

* * *

# Blood And Wine

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 9 months) Dean’s known Nick for 3 years

 

“Any security cameras?”

“A couple. The main gates and the main entrance, the garage and the stables. We've avoided them by coming this way.”

“Dude, the security sucks.”

“I know, but dad always said that home is a place for privacy. Ordinary people don't have security cameras all over so why should we?”

“Duh. I dunno, because you have a shitton of stuff worth stealing, perhaps?” Dean answers sarcastically. 

“The people in a home are the only true valuables, according to dad. I agree. You never thought about the lack of security cameras at Mikey’s?”

“No. But he lives in a building with a portier and to get to the top where he lives you need a special key for the elevator.”

“Yes, but here we have staff 24/7. And if you don’t come from the woods like we did, it looks really fucking intimidating with the spiked walls and gates. Plus the wall is littered with dummy cameras.”

“Alright. You win. I still think y’all are idiots. But whatever. It’s good for us, right?”

They creep along the wall towards the staff entrance Naomi had caught them at the last time. Now they’re a lot more vigilant. They don’t want the staff to know they’re here.

“Why have you got cameras by the _stables_ , by the way? ‘Fraid the horses are planning a coup?” Dean jokes.

Nick gasps and turns around, gaping at him with a scandalised expression, like he’d just offended Nick personally. He snorts and turns away again, theatrically sticking his nose in the air. “How _dare_ you? I’m not talking to you anymore.”

Dean sniggers and mumbles “... _dishonour upon you, dishonour upon your cow_ …”

Nick’s shoulders shake as if he’s chuckling silently. “Polo ponies are valuable beasts, to start with. An Argentinian high-quality pony costs around 20 to 40 grand minimum. We’ve got quite a collection since we played with our own horses. And then we’ve bonded fucking strongly with them, riding them. So to an extent, they’re part of our family. Their safety is important. We rarely sold them after they got retired, unless they _really_ had the drive to compete. Some horses live for that, just like people do. The other ones get to live out the rest of the days here in peaceful retirement,” he explains once he’s stopped laughing.

“So your old man kept the horses but discarded the hunting dogs as soon as he stopped hunting and they weren’t useful anymore. _Nice_ ,” Dean says sarcastically.

Nick throws a glance over his shoulder at Dean, then stops and rubs a hand over his face. He covers his mouth with his hand and seems to deliberate. He almost looks guilty. “Not… not quite.”

“What? _You_ told me that.”

“I did, and it’s true. But I might have phrased it in a way that wasn’t.”

Dean raises his eyebrows in a demand for him to go on.

“Mave is a hunting breed, right? He’s got the instinct and loves to hunt.”

“Uh-huh?”

“But he’s not bred to be a working dog. He’s bred to be either a family dog or a show dog. Our hunting dogs came from a long line of hunting dogs and they were the cream of the crop. We’re talking the champions of champions when it came to hunting. Instincts honed to the maximum. Nothing but the best would do for us.”

“And?”

“And they lived for it. They got distressed and bored if they didn’t get to hunt often enough. Dad considered it a cruelty to withhold them their greatest love. When we no longer had use of them, he sold them. That’s true. But he didn’t discard them. He let them serve their purpose and do what they loved to do, after he couldn’t provide for that need anymore. I’m sorry, Dean, I don’t _want_ you to like him. But if those dogs had been suitable as family dogs, they would have gotten to stay here in their retirement too. When it came to the animals in our charge he was always very strict. They don’t have a choice in who they serve, so it’s our responsibility to serve them as well.”

“Oh.”

Nick throws him a rueful glance, then starts walking again. They reach their intended target and Nick quickly picks the lock. Once inside they’re both on high alert. Trice they have to duck away from serving staff before they reach Mike’s room. They search it thoroughly, but the only thing of value they find is a couple of sketchbooks that makes Nick coo in delight. They’re old and predates Dean by years, but it turns out that Mike’s quite a talented artist. Nick tells him Mike found it relaxing, but he wasn’t passionate about it. He quit drawing sometime in his twenties. It’s interesting, but not helpful. 

“So there goes nothing,” Nick states in disappointment. “We should head back.”

“You know what I think we should do? I think we should go to your room and reconvene.”

“Why? We don’t want to get caught.”

“Yeah, but nobody goes there, remember? Marlon pretends the room doesn’t exist,” Dean insists.

Nick hesitates for a moment, then, “Fair enough.”

* * *

They’re lying on Nick’s bed, brainstorming. Nick likes his room, there’s no doubt about it. There’s something more relaxed about him since the moment they came in here and locked the door. Dean wonders if the reason Marlon sealed the room off and pretends it’s part of another dimension is because he wanted to give Nick a safe place where he could hide where nobody would ever look for him if going got rough. He doesn’t say that out loud.

“So you really think Mike’s protecting me from prison?” Nick asks for the third time.

“ _Yes_ , I really do. I think maybe your old man or someone else got something on you. Maybe they know about Buckner?” While Marlon is the most likely to have made Mike an offer, in Dean’s eyes, there might still be another option. Dean doesn’t want to shut the door on any option. Dean’s pillowing his head with his hands, lying on his back. Nick’s resting his head on the inside of Dean’s upper arm. They’re both fully dressed. 

“How?”

“I dunno? You came back here afterwards, right?”

“Yes, but nobody saw me.”

“As far as you know. Were your clothes bloody?”

“They might have been. I don’t remember. Probably.”

“Think. Try to remember. What was the first thing you did when you got here?”

“Went to Mikey.”

“How did he react when he saw you?”

“Oh, um. My clothes were definitely bloody. He wouldn’t have freaked out like he did if they weren’t. I got a very grateful thank-you scolding.”

“Oh, yeah? He popped a boner?” Dean asks with a shiteating grin and waggles his eyebrows. 

Nick rolls his eyes. “Dean, we weren’t― That’s not― Our relationship―” He halts and falls quiet. “I… not in a literal sense. But maybe in a psychological sense, if I think about it in those terms,” he admits thoughtfully after a while. “I had blood on my face. I remember him grabbing my shirt and tugging me in close, staring at my face and chest in some kind of horrified fascination. And for a moment he looked like I felt.”

“Hungry?”

Nick chortles. “Why are you looking so fucking horny right now?”

“Because I know what you look like fresh from a fight. I bet you had that intense, proud and dangerous glow. Fresh off a kill, ready to devour. Dude, you’re so fucking _hot_. Same as when you pick up a chick. You just got that fucking _presence_ that takes up the whole room. I get weak in the knees just thinking about it. Hell, now I’m gonna imagine you fucking ravaging him right there on the spot. Claiming your prize by mounting him like the lion you are.” The imagery turns Dean on. It makes him a little bit jealous too, but mostly it’s hot. He’s had a lot of time to get used to the idea.

Nick laughs. “You jackass. We never did anything until more than a decade later. Mike woke me up saying ‘I figured out why I can't find anyone to love and can't allow you to either.’ He wouldn’t have felt… _that_ , back when I messed up Buckner for him. You’re a fucking pervert!”

“ _I’m_ not the one boning my brother. And who’s to say he didn’t feel it? Just because he didn’t figure it out until much later doesn’t mean it wasn’t _there_. Do you know how long I managed to deny what kind of feelings I had for you? Granted, not a decade, but if Mike hadn’t gone behind my back like he did, I might never have admitted it to myself. Reading his notebook, he was pining his ass off. Probably just thought it was ordinary brotherly love fucking him over. Who the hell would believe they’re in love with their brother, right? So I bet he got all tingly by seeing you like that. I bet he pulled you close, overcome with _something_. He just didn't know what it was until you fucked a decade later.”

Nick makes a suffering sound and flops over to hide his blushing face under Dean’s armpit. “You teasing fuck. It was only once and we didn’t fuck, okay?” he whines.

“Yeah? Were you naked?”

“Yes.”

“Were you on top or underneath?”

“Top.”

“Did it turn you on, hearing him keen _Luci_ while you rubbed your naked body against him?”

“Why are you doing this?” Nick complains, muffled by Dean’s shirt. Dean can’t see his face but his neck is burning crimson and his cheeks feel hot, pressed into Dean’s side.

“I’m feeding my spank bank,” Dean answers and reaches down to stroke himself through his pants. “Just answer my fucking question,” he says with a teasing lilt.

“Yes. I was turned the fuck on. We’d kissed earlier that week and that might have had something to do with what happened.”

“You did? Why?”

“To entice girls to make out with each other. It was the first time we’d done something like that.”

“Aww. True love’s first kiss,” Dean teases.

“Fuck you.”

“So a coupla days later he woke you up, fucking needing ya, finally having understood what he felt for ya. You liked it?”

“ _Yes_. Mikey’s perfect. He’s too fucking perfect. I tried not to want it, but _shit_ it felt good.” It’s almost impossible to hear what he’s saying as hard as he’s burying under Dean’s armpit, hiding.

Dean undoes the buttons of his pants and strokes himself through his underwear. He’s almost fully hard now. “You trade BJs too?”

“ _No_.”

“You ever wonder what it’d be like? Having him on his knees in front of ya? He’s a patient motherfucker. Likes to take his time. Egg you up first, tease ya. He’s good too. Real good. Didn’t take him long to get a hang of it. If you let him, he’ll draw it out. Take you to the… the edge and rein you back in until you’re ready to fucking rip something apart. All while lookin’ up at ya with those big hazel-green eyes full of worship.” 

Nick makes a suffering sound and Dean bites his lip not to mimic it.

Dean pulls his dick out, smears precome over the glans and strokes himself slowly up and down, squeezing a little every time he gets to the top to get that tickling _zing_ through his dick. His breath is getting heavier. It’s hard to keep his voice unaffected. “You ever wonder what it would be like to fuck him? How he’d feel around your dick? I can’t tell ya. He’s never let me and I’ve never asked him. You’d be his first. He wouldn’t deny you. You tell him to present, he fucking would. He’d probably be apprehensive about it. Worried he wouldn’t be able to please ya. You’ve been with so many before him, have so many to compare him to. He’d beg. Can you imagine it? He’d screw his eyes shut and say ‘ _Luci, pleeease._ ’ You wouldn’t be able to tell if he was beggin’ ya to stop, or beggin’ for you to get on with it. ‘ _Luuucie,_ ’ he’d whine.”

Nick’s lying stock-still except for his chest heaving. Dean can feel that he’s started to sweat. Nick’s practically a furnace where he lies pressed close, trying to hide in shame. Dean’s voice is getting rougher when he talks, breath warbly. He tries his best to mimic Mike’s pitch when he says ‘Luci’. He speeds up his strokes, clenching his ass and tensing his legs. “You wouldn’t know… if he was pleadin’... for you to stop, or not. But you’re a bi-bitter fucker. You’re angry f-for putting you through the h-heartbreak of… losing him. So you don’t stop.” Dean’s fully into it now. He’s got his eyes closed to mere slits, watching Nick and pressing a hand against Nick’s back. He sees Nick and Mike before his inner eye. “He’s already got ass in the air and his head on the pillow, but you put your hand on his head, sh-shoving it down, while you slowly sink into him. You don’t fuckin’ _care_ if he doesn’t want it. As long as he ain’t saying no... y-you’re gonna f-fuck him raw. Y-you know he can’t say no to you. He can’t, whateverfuck you ask of h-him. Yet you press in, and he whines, _pleads_ , ‘ _Lucifer, please. Luci, pleeease,_ ’ until you’re grinding into him. Filling him up, b-b-breeding him like he’s y-your fuckin’ bitch to do whateverfuck y-you want to.”

Nick’s head snaps up, eyes glazed, desperate, pained, pupils blown. “Dean, wha―” He takes one look at what Dean’s doing, eyes going wide, bites his lip, then tips partway to his side so he can push a hand under himself.

Dean continues talking, closing his eyes, working himself, moving his hips in an undulating motion. “He wouldn’t plead anymore. You’d p-punish him and he’d fuckin’ take it. He’d, he’d… be m-moaning ‘ _Oh, God. Oh, God, Luci!_ ’ A-and you’d _still_ , not be sure if he was just playing along because he’d ne-never… deny you. _JeezusfuckingChristyou’re hot!_ ” Dean chokes out, arching into his own rapid hand movement.

Nick heaves himself up to shove his tongue in Dean’s mouth and all Dean can do is whimper while Nick fucks his mouth with his tongue as if it were Mike. “Say… his… name,” Dean manages to gasp out. His eyes are completely shut and he’s all swept up in the fantasy, the lack of oxygen in their heated, wet breaths, and the sensations in his body.

“ _Mikey_ ,” Nick pants.

Dean can feel the bed shaking, hear the rapid slapping, and feel Nick’s muscles work. He too is jerking himself off furiously. 

“ _Again_ ,” Dean commands. It comes out as a gasped plea.

“Fuck you, Michael,” Nick answers into his mouth, voice as strained as his breathing.

“Luci, please. Please, Lucifer. _Pleeease_.”

Nick’s body goes tense beside him, movements stuttering. 

_He’s about to come._

The thought tips Dean over. Muscles seize and he comes with a gasped moan.

Nick suddenly moves beside him, scrambles up, straddles him, placing his knees on each side of his shoulders, nearly sitting on his chest. “Open your mouth,” he grits.

Dean opens his mouth wide, flattening his tongue over his chin. Nick’s hot, velvety dick lands on his tongue, his fist hits the bottom of Dean’s chin repeatedly as he continues to jerk himself for a couple of more seconds before he too comes with a punched out grunt. Warm sperm hits the roof of Dean’s mouth, lands on his tongue, his upper lip, the back of his mouth. He opens his eyes to look up at Nick supporting himself with a hand against the wall behind Dean’s head. Nick’s eyes are fever-glazed, intense, mad. Nick milks himself through it, smears the last drops of come off by rubbing his cockhead against Dean’s cheek, then gets off of Dean. He puts his dick back into his pants and flops himself down beside Dean, throwing his arm over his face to cover his eyes in the bend of his elbow, hiding again.

For a moment they lay quietly while their breathing slows down, getting less winded. Dean swallows and uses a finger to push the come on his cheek and upper lip into his mouth. Its taste mingles with the coppery taste from his split lip. Their continued sex life’s put a strain on its healing and Dean fucking likes the taste and the sting.

He adjusts his dick back into his underwear and closes the buttons of his pants. He’s made a mess of his shirt. He chuckles to himself, rolls out of bed and takes his shirt off in one quick movement. He drops it on the floor without a care and goes to Nick’s wardrobe. Nick still has a shitton of old clothes here and it doesn’t take long to find a suitable sweatshirt. He puts it on and drops down on the bed beside Nick, who hasn’t moved. He digs his cigarettes out of his pocket, lights a cigarette and holds it to Nick’s mouth which is the only part Nick isn’t covering with his arm. Nick sucks a breath of smoke in and raises his free hand to take the cig from Dean’s hand. Dean lights another one for himself and drops the pack on the nightstand.

“That was hot,” he states with a self-satisfied grin after exhaling a puff of smoke.

“That was perverted, asswipe.”

“Don’t care. That was fucking steamin’, and you loved every minute of it.”

“I don’t _want_ to love it. It’s sick,” Nick complains, still hiding his face.

“Nah. Y’all love each other. No one got hurt. It was hot and I don’t give a shit about the rest. So. Where were we? Right. What did you do with your bloody clothes after you came home?”

Nick lets out a pained laugh. “Really? Just like that? After what we just did?”

“Answer the question, dummy.”

Nick takes another drag on the cigarette. He won’t lift his arm away to come out of hiding. Dean thinks he’s being a baby. He and Mike started it. But they’d crossed the line and what’s done is done. It doesn’t change the fact that Nick and Mike have got the hots for each other. Dean might be a little bit jealous since he left himself out of the fantasy, but the pair are still two of the sexiest people Dean knows. What they’d just done had been one helluva sexy fantasy. Brothers or not. Or maybe it got sexier _because_ they were brothers. Nick had nothing to be ashamed of in front of Dean. He’s not judging or he wouldn’t have initiated this.

“I put them in a plastic bag and threw them in the garbage container. Its content was supposed to be incinerated the next day.”

“ _Dude_.”

“I was young and stupid. I wasn’t nearly as good at covering my own tracks back then. Don't judge me, asshole.”

Dean sniggers silently. “So it’s possible someone mighta seen you come home. They mighta seen you throw away the clothes too, and grab the bag for safe keeping in case they ever needed it for blackmail.”

“Not likely.”

“But possible?”

“But possible,” Nick admits finally. “But if they had proof, why wasn’t I wanted for murder? I was just a suspect, remember?”

“I dunno, babe. Warning shot?”

“You really think Mikey’s protecting me from jail?”

“Yeah, I do,” Dean repeats for what feels like the millionth time.

“Then maybe he's in jail. That’s how he traded place with me. They won't let him out until I'm caught.”

“How would he be in jail? We would have noticed a trial.”

“They could have used another identity. If Mikey agreed to it, then he could go in for someone else's crime. When I'm caught he'd be let loose. The mistaken identity would suddenly be ‘discovered’.”

“Alright. Let’s go with that. Tomorrow we check out everyone who went to prison around his disappearance. We start with jails around here to narrow it down.”

“Fair enough.”

Happy to have a game plan Dean lets his mind wander to other things. One thing keeps bugging him. “If your dad bought a bottle of wine for a hundred grand, would he have it insured?”

“Du- _uh_. What’s that got to do with anything?” Nick finally removes his arm and looks at him.

“A bottle was stolen from here around when Mike disappeared. Your dad never reported it to the police so he wouldn’t be able to get the insurance money.”

“Gabe was in town. He does stupid shit like that. And he wouldn’t admit it even if he was caught red handed. Dad probably suspects him. He'd want to avoid the scandal of having one of his sons be arrested for stealing from the family. A hundred grand is a small price to pay in comparison to his precious reputation getting tarnished.”

That coincides with Dean’s own musings from before. Also, he _personally_ thinks it has more to do with protecting Gabe than protecting his reputation. Rich people do stuff like that all the time without it causing much of a scandal apart from maybe losing face amongst friends. He doesn’t say it, though, not wanting to push his luck.

Besides, Nick’s said that Marlon pins people down and knows how to say the right thing, which puts his sincerity to the question. The longer it gets since he last spoke with Marlon, the more he finds himself doubting his words. The confessions he’d made about Dean had been phrased as questions. ‘Do you want me to confess…’ and ‘Do you wish to hear…’ Maybe Marlon had just said it to get under his skin? He'd succeeded, after all. And he'd even made Dean question Nick’s sincerity by… “Luci?” Dean asks apprehensively, fearing Nick will be pissed off. 

“Yes, dear?”

Dean relaxes. “You okay with me calling you that? Or Lucifer?”

“We're married for fuck sake. You can call me anything you want. I know it comes from a place of love.”

“Oh. Okay. Cuz last time you said you were gonna kick my ass if I ever called you that again.”

“I was head over heels for you, and trying to keep my distance. It would have made it harder to either hear you say it with affection or more barbed if you'd been a dick about it.”

“Would you prefer if I called you Luci?”

“No. Either name's fine.”

“Alright.”

* * *

They decide to be bold and stay the night. It’s thrilling, being an uninvited visitor right under the nose of Marlon and the staff. Twice they sneak out of the room down to the kitchen to steal food. On their second raid at 2 AM they almost run into Marlon coming from downstairs. He looks tired. Dean wonders if he’s worked until now or what he's been doing downstairs and not in his chambers. Maybe he too has pilfered a night snack?

They manage to avoid discovery and sleep undisturbed. In the morning they leave the same way they came. Dean’s surprised at how bustling the household is. He hadn’t noted quite as many people on his previous visits. “Cleaning day. We have one or two maids on call, living in the servant's quarters. But once a week the extras come in to clean the whole house,” Nick explains quietly as they slink outside. Nick leads the way. They creep along the wall but have to change direction and go the opposite route around the building to avoid garden staff.

Nick suddenly avoids the wall, walking further away from it before he turns back to walk right beside it.

"Dude. You afraid of the wall or something?" Dean teases from behind.

"The dungeon still creeps me out," Nick mutters.

"The dungeon?"

"The wine cellar. I told you, it used to be a dungeon," Nick answers without turning around.

Dean stops dead. He's suddenly bombarded with so many thoughts at once, pieces falling to place.

_Wine woulda been insured Don't want cops around Safest place for any of his children is in the family home Protecting Nick from jail Offered to trade places Eye twitching when I asked if Mike was alright All the wine except the most valuable moved to another location Only one with a key ‘Nobody would look for my kids here’ Had to go take care of something as soon as he got home Keeping them separated Jail woulda done that Safest place at home Wine cellar Dungeon Jail Safest place HomeJailDungeonSafest_

"I know where Mike is!" 

Nick turns around, only now realising Dean isn't following. "What?"

"I know where Mike is," Dean repeats and hurries to catch up, heart beating in elation. "Marlon said he was surprised it was me who came, that he'd expected you, right? I wondered why he'd think you'd come here and he said the family home is the safest place for all his children."

"Uhuh?" Nick agrees.

"Marlon knew you killed Buckner. He's been covering it up for all these years―"

"No he―"

"Shut up and listen! He _knows_. He loves all of y'all, even you. He's been afraid of you getting hurt since always, covering for ya anyway he could, without it fucking over the rest of y'all and the people in his employ. He never locked you into your room again because he was afraid you'd die. He sat vigil by your bedside while you were in a coma and didn't make himself scarce until they were gonna wake you up―"

"He said that?" Nick says sceptically.

"Doctors and nurses confirmed it. I'll tell you later, but hear me out. He's been covering for you. He's wanted to allow you the freedom to be who you are, and he's been scared of what would happen if being who you are would lead to prison. But he doesn't trust you to keep things on the down low. So when you and Mike crossed the line from brotherly love to lovers―"

"It was only once."

"I said _shut up_! He doesn't know that. And most likely it would have happened again the next time you and Mike met in person. So he separated you the only way he could. He and Mike both fear prison would kill you, and both know that forbidding you to do something is useless and that you defy your dad on principle alone, so he threatened Mike by saying that if Mike didn't repudiate you, he'd drop the dirt he had on ya, sending you to jail. Because if it got out that you and Mike were lovers, it would put the whole family to question since you're all so fucking _close_. You with me so far?"

"Yes."

"At the ball, it was revealed that you and Mike had met up. We told him without meaning to. He musta thought Mike defied him. So he dropped some of the info he had on Buckner. I'm willing to bet he's got your bloody clothes stashed away somewhere to solidify the evidence if he has to."

"But if he's been protecting me from jail, why would he want to send me there now?"

"Two reasons. He's just like you, a man of his word. If he says he's going to do something he does it unless terms are renegotiated. Mike renegotiated the terms and Marlon made him an offer to trade places with you. Second reason, Marlon knows you're dangerous. He knows you're a killer. He knows you get swept up in the game and follow through until the end of the line, no matter the cost. He knows that you might hurt people you love, without intending to do so, because you throw yourself into the game. He's never been sure if he's in the wrong, protecting you. He loves you and doesn't want to see you hurt, same as his other kids. But he thinks that maybe locking you up is the right thing to do, after all. Even if he fears the consequences. He told me he doesn't buy the drivel about chasing after the lost sheep and let the rest of the herd be picked off by wolves. You wandered off, and now he's letting you be eaten by wolves, only Mike took your place."

"So where is he?"

"The safest place Marlon could think of. A place where he could make sure Mike is alright, despite it all." Dean gestures with his thumb at the wall behind him. "Dungeon."

Nick stares at the wall dumbstruck.

"It makes sense," Dean extrapolates. "The wine was never stolen, but he had to move all the wine out to make the dungeon habitable, and I suspect, even comfortable. He pretended to mistrust his employees so only he'd have a key and nobody would ever go down there."

"For the love of...." Nick looks like he has to sit down. Dazed, he walks towards the wall where the wine cellar presumably is somewhere underneath the ground. He gets to his knees and puts his hands against the wall just above the earth. “He’s here?”

“It makes sense.”

“You sure?”

“Makes sense,” Dean repeats.

“But you’re not sure?”

“I’d stake my life on it. Marlon wants y’all safe. Who’d he trust to insure it, if not himself? Mike’s there. I’d stake my life on it. Hell, I’d literally let you shoot me if he isn’t.”

“No need to be dramatic,” Nick mutters.

“You don’t have to aim for anything vital,” Dean jokes and winks.

Nick blows a raspberry. “So how do we get him out?”

* * *


	81. The Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, in case you missed it, I published a second part in this verse. It's a short (by my standards) prequel of what happened between Lucifer and Michael that night. It's two chapters of roughly the same event, but one from Luci POV and one from Mikey POV.

* * *

# The Door

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 9 months) Dean’s known Nick for 3 years

 

The cellar door clicks open and Nick gets to his feet from where he’d been crouching to pick the lock. His expression is pinched, skin pale and Dean can see sweat starting to bead on his forehead. He hasn't said anything, but he’s freaked out. They’re about to enter a source of his childhood nightmares. They slink inside and hurry downstairs. The door clicks shut behind them. A lamp automatically lit when they entered. When they reach the bottom of the stairs they stop. Dean can see orange glowing buttons dotting the wall of the corridor further ahead where the lamplight doesn’t reach. “This lamp’s the only one that comes on automatically?” he asks.

“Yes.” Nick’s voice is curt.

The cellar is warm and dry, not cold and damp like Dean had expected. The stone walls are white washed and the ceiling arched. Old sconces for torches still dot the walls and Dean can see several doorways on each side. “How fucking large is this place?”

“It’s a warren. Big enough to get lost in if you're a kid. Mostly it’s storage rooms. Once something finds its way down here it's rarely brought back up. You can find things down here from when our family first moved in here. Older, even, as they had a lot of inherited stuff. If anyone in the family should become a historian, this would be a gold mine. The wine cellar isn’t hard to find, though. Just down the corridor and to the left. Can't miss it,” Nick explains, but makes no move to go, just stares anxiously into the darkness ahead. A drop of sweat frees itself from his forehead and tracks its way down his cheek where it gets stuck, glistening in his half-beard. 

Dean almost tells him he doesn’t have to do this. That he can go up and wait in his room while Dean checks if Mike’s there. But Luci’s proud. And he’s stubborn. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s braved his fear. “Alright. Stay there, hide in that first arch to keep watch,” he suggests and points. “Marlon would be the only one coming down here. If he does, keep yourself hidden until he’s passed by, then knock him out cold from behind so he doesn’t catch us.”

Nick throws him a glance. He might get what Dean’s doing. He’d be staying hidden, but close to the exit. And if Marlon came here, he’d have light as a warning. “Got it,” he answers.

“Good. I’ll be going by my phone light once I turn the corner. If I light any of the lamps Marlon would see it straight away. If Mike’s there, I’ll text you.”

“Good.”

“And don’t shoot Marlon if he comes down, okay? I don’t want to see any damages more than what’s strictly necessary to keep him from discovering that it’s us. No fighting or maiming until we’ve got Mike safely tucked away somewhere, okay?”

Nick snorts. “You know me too well, mon cher,” he says dryly, showing some humour through the nerves.

“Promise me.”

“I promise. Now let’s get on with it,” Nick snaps.

They hurry to the archway Nick will be hiding in. Dean counts the orange glowing buttons to where he’s supposed to turn left. The door lamp by the entrance will soon wink out, programmed with a timer. He’ll be going down the corridor blind until he’s turned the corner and can light his phone-flashlight without it being visible when someone comes down the stairs. Nick crouches down in the position he’ll be waiting in. Dean waits until the lamp shuts off and darkness smothers them. “Hey, Nicky?”

“What?” Nick answers tensely.

“Bruce Willis is going to keep starring in action movies, because you know what they say about old habits?” Dean jokes.

Nick makes a pained noise and huffs in semi-amusement. 

It’s good enough for Dean. He touches Nick’s shoulder, then dives into the darkness. Moving in total darkness always makes it feel like you're walking greater distances. Thankfully the orange glowing light switches divide the distance so he doesn’t have to go solely by counting his steps. He reaches the end of the corridor holding a hand out in front of him until he touches the wall, then he turns left and takes his phone out, switching the flashlight app on. There are doors and archways to other corridors, but Nick’s right. Once he finds the right door he can’t fucking miss it. It looks like the door of a fucking vault, except for the hatch in head height and the slot by the floor, big enough to push a food tray in. The face hatch has a lid but the bottom slot doesn’t, and a faint bluish light escapes from under the door. Dean shines his phone light up and down the door. “Sonnova bitch,” he mutters to himself. It’s a solid steel door and it sure as hell isn’t an 18th-century iron door like Nick’s said. And there's no ordinary pickable lock either. It’s some top notch code/key card thing and instead of an ordinary handle there's a fucking wheel to turn, which means that there probably are thick long steel bars going into the stone wall on each side. There’s no way in hell Marlon could have installed this without anyone noticing. Dean’s instantly suspicious of fucking _everyone_ working here, Naomi included.

Dean opens the hatch and peeks inside through the glass, muttering “Sonnova bitch,” all over again. 

He’d been right. 

The inside is a large room, furnished with fucking anything you might need. He sees a treadmill, weights for working out, a TV, book cases with books, a desk with a laptop, papers and pens on top, recliner, lamps, a table with two chairs, and a large inflatable bed. And on the bed half covered by a comforter, he sees a familiar back, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed and head turned away. The bluish shine comes from a night light, probably meant to show the interior for a watcher without disturbing anyone sleeping inside.

Dean taps out a message to Nick on his phone, sends it, then raps sharply at the door.

Mike wakes up with a jerk. He sits up and blinks into the room. Dean raps on the door again. Mike lights his bedlight, looks at an alarm clock and slides out of bed. He comes towards the door, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Father? Is everything alright?” he asks, voice carrying through the slot at the bottom of the door.

“Heya, babe. S’up?” Dean says with a lopsided smirk when Mike reaches the door. He’s angling his phone so his face will be lit for Mike to see, destroying his night vision in the process.

It’s comical how Mike goes from sleepy to wide awake and wide-eyed in the blink of an eye. “Dean! What are you doing here? Are you alright? Is Luci alright? Did something happen to father?”

“Nothing’s happened to Marlon. Yet. And we’re here to rescue you.”

Mike’s pressing his hands against the door, staring in shock at Dean’s face. He opens his mouth to answer, closes it, then opens it again, but nothing comes out. There’s panic in his eyes.

“Say, there wouldn’t be a handy little button to open the door from the inside, huh?” Dean asks cheekily.

“No. Why are you doing this?”

“Mike, you dumbass. I love you. We both love you. You think you could just disappear and we wouldn’t look for ya?” Dean says and Mike presses a hand over his mouth. Dean doesn’t even reflect on the fact that this is the first time he’s told Mike he loves him. The words come so naturally these days. “Yeah, no. It doesn’t work that way. At first, we thought you were sipping umbrella drinks on some beach somewhere, licking your wounds with a hot chick or two by your side. Otherwise we’d have started looking sooner. Sorry ‘bout that, but you coulda given us a heads up, ya know?”

“I warned you. I texted you right after the ball.”

“Didn’t read it. What did you say? ‘I’m going to let dad lock me up and blame Luci for awhile. Have fun dodging the feds. Cheers, tallyho, see ya!’”

“No. I―”

Nick materialises out of the darkness and pushes Dean out of the way so he can see Mike. “You piece of _shit_ ,” he grits out through his teeth towards Mike. He’s sweating profusely, brows drawn down into a fierce scowl, eyes cold.

_’My feelings towards my brother are complicated at best,’ huh? Yeah, this gonna be a fun ride,_ Dean thinks sarcastically.

Mike steps away from the door and glares at Nick. “You should go, you manipulative piece of trash. I don’t want anything to do with y―”

“Drop the act, Mike. We found the hidden notebook in your office,” Dean interjects before the fight can escalate.

Mike’s frown melts away and he looks away from the hatch in the door. He runs his tongue over his teeth under closed lips.

Dean pushes Nick backwards to stand between him and the door. The last thing they need right now is a fight. He gets it. The anger Nick must be feeling in the wake of the initial relief, but now is not the time. “We know that you're protecting Nick from the slammer. We know you still love him more than anything. We know you cut a deal with Marlon. The problem is, y’all were negotiating with other people's actions without telling us about it. And we don't accept the terms, alright? Which makes you being locked up useless.”

Mike goes back to the door and leans his head against it. “You weren’t supposed to come after me…” he says mournfully. Dean can’t see his face like this, only his shoulder. 

“The hell did you think? I wouldn’t care if you disappeared?” Nick snaps. 

“No, I didn't. I'd worked really hard for you to hate me and after what happened on the ball I had no reason to think you'd be stupid enough to screw everything up,” Mike snipes right back. 

Dean can feel more than see Nick’s temper flaring. The temperature seems to drop several degrees. “Nick, take sentry,” he says to stop another harsh remark.

Nick grunts and melts into the darkness from where they came. Dean can hear his clothes rustling as he settles somewhere in the middle, between the corridor intersection and the dungeon, then, nothing.

Dean had expected a warmer reunion, but then again, the two of them had poured a fair bit of poison between them. Unjustly accused, Nick would not have let his words be sweet when talking to Mike, so the infection had spread both ways.

_Fucking great. I’m saddled with two sulking babies throwing sand._

“So what _were_ we supposed to do, Mike?” Dean wonders.

“Either leave the country or just… disappear. Father would let me out once the trail of you’d been dead for a year, or when reports from abroad came in, confirming that you’d left the country and stayed there for a minimum of two months. I had to agree that if Luci resurfaced in America, I’d confirm to the press and law that he’d kept me captive, and the hunt would be on again.”

“I’d fucking _kill you_ if you’d done that!” Nick hisses from the dark.

“Would you?” Mike asks.

From Nick, there’s only a seething silence.

“I guess I would have deserved it…” Mike says mournfully when he realises Nick isn’t going to answer. He sinks down by the door, out of sight, sitting down with his back against it. Dean lays down so he can look through the gap at the bottom of the door. He can see Mike’s pajama-bottom clad hip and his bare feet as he sits with his knees drawn up. The steel door must be cold against his naked torso, but he doesn’t seem to care. “And if it had to happen, I’d want it to be you who did me in, Luci…”

Nick makes a small pained noise Dean doubts Mike can hear.

“You’re fucking idiots, Mikey. What if there’s a fire in there? Huh? Did you think of that? Or what if dad went belly up? He’s no spring chicken. You’d be stuck here and nobody would know,” Nick points out angrily. It’s hard to say if it’s because it’s Mike his anger burns hot, or if it’s the stress of being down here in the cellar that does it.

“There’s a sprinkler system installed and I have a fire extinguisher. A couple of years ago we did a major renovation of the cellars. Several rooms were converted to work as safe rooms in case of emergencies, this one included. It was easy to fix this one up. Due to its former capacity it already had a drain, then there’s a pipe system since our grandparents added it for the benefit of the cleaning staff. I’ve got a shower and toilet. There’s an emergency generator making sure I’ll have electricity, and I’ve got food and other necessities for a month, should anything happen to dad. If he dies or disappears for two weeks, our lawyer would open an envelope with a letter, code and key card. I’d be found and let out.”

“If you installed this years ago, why did you make it a fucking prison door? Nick told me you had a dungeon door, but this is insane.”

Mike chuckles humorlessly. “Gimmick? Seemed like a good idea at the time. Keeping up the tradition, because why not? The bottom slot can be closed, making the door airtight. We have secluded air systems for all the rooms we converted to safe rooms. In the case of poison gas and things like that.”

“Huh. So can the door be opened from the inside?”

“Normally, yes. But now it’s disabled.”

“So how do we get you out? It ain’t exactly a pickable lock. I could use explosives, but I don’t know how stable this house is and I ain’t risking hurting you.”

“No. It’s better if you just go. Both of you, leave the country. Go to Cas and let him make sure you’re safe like you were supposed to. Father will let me out.”

“Cas is in on it?” Dean asks, going cold at the thought.

“Cas knows nothing,” Mike tells him, making him relax again. “But we take care of each other. He’d never leave Luci on his own if he asked for help.”

“Yeah, he’s been financing us. But we ain’t leaving without you. Weren’t you listening? We don’t agree with the terms and conditions.” Dean pushes in a hand in the slot in the door and lays his palm against Mike’s hip. Mike jerks in startlement. “Oy, babe. We ain’t leavin’ without ya,” Dean repeats. “We’ll get you out and skip the country, all three of us. _Then_ we’ll figure out what to do next, okay?”

Mike’s hand comes to cover Dean’s own. “You don’t understand, Dean. This is the best solution for all of us. Father has enough dirt on Luci to put him away for life. And you don’t know what we did. You don’t know wh―”

“Shut up. I know exactly what you two did. And I know you’d be sucking face an’ doing the dirty again in no time, given a chance.”

“ _Dean!_ ”  
“ _Dean!_ ” 

Dean sniggers at both brothers having the same mortified tone as they say his name in unison. “What? My boyfriend and my husband bump and grind, and it’s fucking hot, okay?”

“Ex-boyfriend,” Mike points out.

“Yeah, well that’s your own fucking fault. If you hadn’t been lying your ass off at every corner you wouldn’t be. You kept breaking my heart over and over, hurting me. I deserved better. I _deserve_ better. I was loyal to you, Mike. Not until I read about your engagement in a fucking magazine, did I cheat on ya. And I came clean straight away, remember? It was the first fucking thing I told you. I woulda left you straight away, ‘cept it turned out your little bro could be just as big of a dick as you, and made himself scarce. Seems both of y’all are confused about the difference between family and property. I’m family, okay? Not some fucking toy.”

There’s a silence after Dean’s scolding. Then Mike lies down on the floor so he can look through the tray-slot. He keeps holding Dean’s hand. “Are you really married?”

“Yeah. We really are. We had to have a little chat about me not being property, and therefore isn’t stealable, because he’d given you some dumbfuck promise. But I love the son of a bitch.”

“ _Pffhah_! A _chat_ , my ass,” Nick protests. “Mikey, have you ever faced off with Dean in a righteous anger when you’ve done something wrong and you know it? It sure as hell wasn’t a _chat_.”

Inside the dungeon, Mike smiles wistfully. “Yes, I have. He’s quite intimidating.” He’s keeping eye contact with Dean as he speaks. Their faces are maybe 16 inches apart and a mile away at the same time.

“How’d ya get all the furniture in here without anyone noticing?” Dean asks.

“Oh, that was easy. The whole cellar is for storage. Once the staff had moved the wine racks out, along with all the wine, we could pick and choose.”

“As much as I’d like to stay here and prattle, dad could come down here any minute,” Nick grumps irritably.

“He won’t,” Mike assures. Dean strokes his thumb over the back of his hand.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Is that why you haven’t turned on the light? You can do that. He comes before he’s off to work, directly when he returns home, and then a couple of hours at night to keep me company. He’s already been here today, so I’m not expecting him back for another twelve hours at least.”

Nick hits a glowing button, dispelling the darkness, but stays in his spot, crouched down and leaned against the wall, gun in hand. His hair is matted by sweat, cheeks pale, eyes haunted.

“So how do we get you out?” Dean asks Mike.

“Easy,” Nick answers tensely. “When dad comes down, we put a gun to his head and tell him to unlock. Done.”

“He rarely has the keycard on him,” Mike says, bursting his bubble. 

“Fuck, you must be so bored in there,” Dean states while trying to come up with a viable solution. 

Mike smiles at him and squeezes his hand. “It’s not so bad. A bit lonely, but father dispels it fairly well with his visits.”

“So what do you do during the days?” Dean asks.

“Work out, read, watch Netflix or HBO, work―”

“He forces you to _work_?” Nick roars angrily.

Mike lets go of Dean’s hand and scowls in the direction of Nick’s voice. “He isn’t forcing me to do anything! I’m only doing things I’ve agreed to, okay, moron?”

Dean has to roll out of the way when Nick comes storming. Nick kicks the door forcefully. “It’s _not consent_ if he’s _threatening you_!” He rages and kicks the door twice more then slams his fist into it. On the other side Dean can see Mike rolling himself into a protective ball, as if he’s afraid Nick can get through and get to him somehow.

“Nicholas Williams. Dry the blood of the door and sit, the fuck, down. This is a stealth mission, soldier. Ain’t gonna tolerate any tantrums, you hear?”

Nick turns around to stare down at Dean, nostril flaring. Then he looks at his fist, discovering the split bleeding skin over his knuckles. A drop of sweat falls from his nose to land on his hand. “Yessir.” Nick turns back to the door to dry the blood off, then sits down beside the door, sucking at his knuckles. Maybe Dean should be surprised by Nick’s behaviour, but he isn’t. Nick’s scared shitless and knows his fear is irrational. He’s handling it fucking well, Dean thinks, but reducing him to a soldier is giving him an anchor he can reel his fears (and resulting aggression) in by. There’s a certain safety in following orders and handling responsibility over to someone else.

Dean’s more surprised at Mike’s continued provocation of Nick. He rolls back to lie close to the door and taps his fingers on the ground to get Mike to reach for him. Mike unfolds and puts his hand through the slot to grab Dean’s hand. Dean kisses his fingertips then startles when Nick puts his hand over theirs. Dean throws a glance at him to see if he's mad about the small affectionate gesture towards Mike, but no. He just wants to be part of that gesture. His hand is sweat-slippery and cold on top of theirs.

“You know where he keeps the key card?” Dean asks.

“No. But I know the code unless he’s changed it recently.”

“What does the card look like?”

“Blue, with a silver star on it.”

Dean angles his head to look at Nick. “Nick? Could you go search for the card in Marlon’s quarters? Don’t make a mess. I don’t want him knowing we’ve been here until Mike’s out, okay? And don’t tell anyone we’ve found Mike just yet. I’ll stay here a bit longer. We’ll reconvene in your room later, alright?”

“Fair enough.” Nick gives both their hands a squeeze and gets up. He gives the door an absentminded stroke and then briskly walks away. They should probably both go search, but Dean wants to talk to Mike some more and he worries about Nick being so strung out, being in the cellar.

Dean pulls his hand back once Nick’s gone. He takes his phone and shuffles it under the door to Mike before digging out a power bank out of one of his pockets and stuffing it through the hole too so Mike can charge the phone when needed. “Here. I’ll have to go eventually. You can use this to get in touch. Nick’s number is already in there. I’ll call you as soon as I get my hands on a new phone. Um. This might be too much to ask, but could you hold off from calling anybody but us until we’ve solved the problem about getting you out? I’m not stoppin’ ya if you wanna call Cas or Gabe, but I’m not trusting Gabe not to do anything stupid, and Cas...”

“I won’t.”

“Good. Good.” Dean’s first thought had been to tell Mike to call the feds and clear Nick’s name by telling them where he was and who’s behind his disappearance. But then he stopped himself. It might not be the most tactical thing to do. First off, he doesn’t know how it would affect the Williams family business and the rest of the siblings. But most importantly… “Baby, do you know where Marlon keeps the bloody clothes Nick wore the night he went after Buckner?” he hedges. It’s a long shot. Maybe Marlon doesn’t have them at all. 

“How did you―? No. He showed them to me when he discovered that I and Luci had… uh…”

“Done the dirty,” Dean fills in for him. “Fuck. I hoped I was wrong about that. Alright. We’ll find them. He got any more shit that could bite us in the ass?”

Just like he feared. If Marlon got arrested for what he did to Mike, the police might search his home and office and find them. Or worse, Marlon could just _tell_ the cops where the clothes are. Nick would suddenly be wanted for murder. The kidnapping allegations they could make go away once Mike’s out, but the murder? Hardly. The last thing they need is Marlon being handed over to the cops while simultaneously harbouring a grudge.

There might be another, more personal, reason Dean doesn’t want Marlon jailed. But at this point, holding Mike’s hand through a fucking steel wall, he’d rather die than admit that to anyone, least of all himself. But Mike had agreed to this. He hadn’t been dragged here kicking and screaming. And Marlon had offered Mike to go to jail for Luci, and maybe he hadn’t believed Mike would say yes? Maybe he’d panicked internally when Mike agreed. Maybe choosing the dungeon wasn’t prearranged? Maybe Marlon tripped over his tongue and then been forced to stand for what he said. 

A lesser man would have said ‘No. You’re mad! I didn’t actually mean it!’ But not Marlon. He’s like Luci in that behalf. ‘The only thing a man’s got is his word’. _That’s_ why none of the brothers could believe he’d ever forgive a Winchester. It had come out of their dad’s mouth that Winchesters were personas non grata, hence that was the rock solid truth for them. He needed people to keep believing his word is holy. That’s why he wants people to come to him to renegotiate, rather than doing it himself. The Williams boys might say he’s manipulative and insincere, but deep down they all trust him with their lives. To them, what dad said equalled the truth, even to Nick. That’s why Nick kept believing he wasn’t welcome back home. Dean can easily imagine it. He hasn’t _seen_ Marlon lose his temper, but Marlon had alluded that nobody makes him lose it like Nick. So it isn’t a far stretch to imagine a shouting match between 18-year-old Nick and his father that ended in an impulsive ‘If you leave now, you’re not welcome back here’.

Mike’s literally trusting Marlon with his life. 

Hence, Dean does too.

It has nothing to do with how the air between them crackles with electricity, or how he’s drawn to the ‘Well done, son,’ coming out of Marlon’s mouth, like a sunflower follows the sun to soak in its rays. It definitely hasn’t got anything to do with Marlon handing him his pedigree when he thought himself unworthy, or giving him a friggin’ _diamond_ , saying ‘this is you’. It’s nothing to do with a couple of stolen kisses. Nothing. Nothing. _Nothing._ It’s just tactics, okay? Keeping Marlon out of jail until further notice.

“Father knows a lot about all the shit Luci’s been up to. But I think Buckner’s clothes are the only thing he’s got tangible evidence for,” Mike tells him.

It’s a good enough reason to keep Marlon away from the cops. A good enough excuse.

Dean quells a wave of guilt and gives Mike’s fingertips another kiss. “Can I get you something? Anything you need while we figure out how to get you out?”

Mike smiles and laces his fingers together with Dean’s. “No. Your company is enough. Father brings me anything materialistic I need, except means to communicate with the outside world.”

They lie talking for maybe two more hours before Dean leaves to find Nick.

* * *


	82. Juggling

* * *

# Juggling

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 9 months) Dean’s known Nick for 3 years

 

The search of Marlon’s quarters yields nothing. No bloody clothes and no key card. Nick’s searched, and they search together a second time, while Dean searches for hidden compartments and things like that. Nothing. Not even a safe. There’s a gun in a desk drawer but they can find nothing of interest for their cause.

Nick takes a shower in the en suite bathroom of his room, while Dean lies on the bed eating Cheetos, trying to come up with a solution that would keep everyone safe until the three of them―he, Mike, and Nick―could sit down around a table and discuss what to do next. He’s dug up a new burner phone from his bag and sent Mike a text to give him the phone number. Now he picks up the phone and calls Cas just as Nick comes out of the bathroom, towelling off. “Heya, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.” Cas might legit have the sexiest phone voice of them all. Dean won’t ever admit that he thinks that, but it might influence the number of times he calls him. Cas’ voice is raspier than usual so Dean jumps to conclusions.

“Sorry for waking ya at this hour.”

“I expect you to have a good reason for it,” Cas grumbles.

“You trust me, right?”

“With a question like that? Not a bit.”

Dean laughs and Nick throws a curious glance at him while getting dressed.

“Alright. I get that. But here’s the thing, I need your help and I can’t tell you about it just yet. I need you to trust me and give me what I want.”

“I would have done that either way, but with that introductory phrase I would squint suspiciously at you, if I could be bothered to keep my eyes open, that is,” Cas answers dryly.

Dean chortles. “Good. We may need to skip the country and come hide out at your place pretty damned soon.”

“Ah. Now that’s something I like to hear.”

“Can you make it happen?”

“Of course.”

“Great. I need an escape route for three people and a dog from Long Island, and I need it on standby. I dunno if this will take days or weeks, but once we need to go, we’ll need to leave the country within, let’s say five hours tops.”

“Three people?” Cas suddenly sounds wide awake.

“Yes, three people. Trust me, okay? I can’t tell you anything just yet. Just... Just trust me.”

“Very well. I’ll be setting it up right away.” Dean can hear the rustling of fabric and something clunking, telling him Cas got out of bed.

“Great. Call me on this number with the details when you’re done.”

“I will. Goodbye, Dean.”

“Bye, Cas.”

Dean hangs up. Nick opens his mouth as if to say something, but Dean immediately calls another number and puts his finger to his mouth, gesturing for Nick to keep quiet.

“Gabriel Williams, speaking.”

“Gaberyon! It’s me.”

“Deano? Darned! You change phone numbers more often than I change underwear.”

“Burner phones rarely last a full year,” Dean jokes.

“Oh, har har. What can I do for you?”

“I need you back in the country to run supplies for an unknown period of time. We might have a lead on where Mike is, and if it pans out, he’ll need fake identities with passports, cars registered in his name and other shit you can conjure. We might need you to do other shit too, so can you get your ass to the States without it seeming suspicious?”

“You’ve found him?” Gabe asks hopefully instead of answering the question.

“Not yet, but we’ve got a crack in the case. Can you get yourself over here, or do I need to find someone else?”

“Hold on.” He hears Gabe snap his fingers and his voice comes from further away as if he’s put the phone down. “Charlie! Mess up the Vanguard files, then call the Vanguard’s CEO and retract our offer because their files aren’t adding up. Make sure to insult him in the process. Hilda, book me on a flight to MacArthur airport. It would seem like I have to go back home to suck up to Vanguard’s CEO.” Dean can practically hear Gabe waggle his eyebrows conspiratorially. He hears the two females affirm the orders, then Gabe’s back again. “Done. My pixie and fairy are setting it up. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Great. Call me on this number if you need me,” he says and hangs up. Now none of the brothers would mistakenly call Mike.

Nick frowns at him when he hangs up. “Why didn’t you just tell them about Mike?”

Dean sits up and holds out the Cheetos to Nick. “Because your dad _knows_ stuff. He knows stuff you don’t know he knows. He gets that information from somewhere.”

“You really think Gabe or Cas would sell us out?” Nick asks with a bemused frown and takes the proffered bag of snacks.

“Hell no. But we can’t trust the people around your brothers. Marlon knows Cas is gay and in a long-term relationship with Balt for an instance. I’ve gathered that they’ve done a good job of covering it up.”

“He does?” Nick asks and sits down, putting some Cheetos in his mouth.

“Yeah, he does. And I’m thinking that we don’t want to give him a heads up. So if Cas or Gabe suddenly become too excited, or tell someone close to them, we might get a leak we don’t want.”

Nick hums. “We could ask Dicky for help.”

“No fucking way. Roman can’t know about Marlon’s involvement in Mike’s disappearance.”

Nick raises a questioning eyebrow while chewing. He’s calm now he’s out of the cellar. It’s like night and day.

“Roman might be a friend to y’all, but he also wants something from ya,” Dean explains. “The prenup negotiation is at a standstill because both he and Marlon are afraid the other will take advantage. Tell Roman and you’ll feed him leverage and there’s no telling what Roman will do. Yeah, he might be in love with Hannah. I’m not saying he isn’t. But he’s not _stupidly_ in love with her or he woulda folded in the negotiations long ago. He might very well see this as a great opportunity to undermine a competitor, fuck up your business just so he could bail you out and make y’all dependent on him. Marlon going to jail would only serve Dick, but it wouldn’t help us. He might act before we got the opportunity to get our hands on your bloody clothes, and no death threats will help keep him in his place if you’re imprisoned for life, for murder, right? Gabe’s invested in a lot of property, and Cas has his own businesses aside from the family business. But Mike doesn’t, and neither do the girls. We don’t want to rock the boat before we _all_ wear our life jackets, you with me?” Dean’s expecting Nick to get pissed off at his lack of trust in the childhood friend. He’s prepared for it.

Nick hums thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes at him. But the ire never comes. Instead he sniggers. “So this is who you were as a soldier? I must say, I’m surprised you didn’t reach higher in the ranks than you did. You’ve got a mind of an officer and the trustworthiness of a grunt.”

Dean smiles bashfully and looks down at his lap. It’s high praise. You trusted other grunts because they’d be there by your side when the heat was on. They knew what things were about. Officers who came straight from an academy? Not so much. But those who had clawed their way up from the bottom rung, you’d follow them anywhere.

Truthfully, Dean’s started to feel more and more like his old self. The last years in the army he’d been at his peak mentally. He’d been full of confidence and pride in himself. That had all been shot to hell after he was wounded, but piece by piece he’s coming back to who he once was. Dodging feds, solving problems, having a partner to work with, and lastly - a family to support him. It’s all done wonders for him. And in this shitstorm they’ve wound up in, he’s having fun.

He chuckles awkwardly. “So you ain’t gonna put up a fight about not telling Roman?”

Nick shakes his head and flops down to lie on his back, digging up more Cheetos from the bag. “Nope. What I _want_ , is to tear down everything dad’s built and make him pay, but as you pointed out, my siblings’ interests are too tied up in his. Got to get them on dry land first. And Dicky? He’s smooth and very ambitious. Personally, I wouldn’t care if I risked losing everything in a marriage. Having you tell me you love me is a good enough prenup for me. So I can see where you’re coming from with Dicky. Once we get Mikey out, we can tell him. He’s helping us either way, so I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“So are we gonna have a fight about that other thing?”

Nick’s face scrunches up in confusion, hand stilling halfway to his mouth. “What other thing?”

“About me calling Mike ‘babe’, kissing his fingers, holding his hand, and telling him I love him?”

Nick seems utterly perplexed. “Why would we fight about that?”

Dean blinks at him. 

_Because you’re a possessive and jealous bastard?_ he doesn’t say.

“Yeah, no. No reason. So. Key card. Here’s my plan...”

* * *


	83. The Insider

* * *

# The Insider

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 9 months) Dean’s known Nick for 3 years

When Marlon steps into the elevator Dean can feel the back of his neck start to sweat. Even more so when people part to let him stand in the back. 

Next to Dean.

_Fucking great._

Marlon’s eyes sweep over Dean with zero recognition before he turns around to settle with his back against the wall, close enough to graze Dean’s arm.

_Maybe he didn’t recognise me?_

Dean shifts his toolbox from one hand to another. Black hair, brown eyes, dark-framed glasses, a thick black beard, ugly tattoos snaking their way down his arms and up his throat from under his white tee and blue worker dungarees. He’s hiding in plain sight. James Bond there to fix the broken air conditioning system that he so conveniently broke earlier.

Marlon takes up his phone to check emails or something like that. When he puts it back in his pocket he accidentally jostles Dean and gives him a half-hearted “Excuse me,” without looking at him.

Dean should be elated by the lack of recognition. 

He should. It’s awesome, right? Right under his nose. Nobody else had recognised him so far and he’d been introduced to quite a lot of people on his last visit.

So why the hell does it sting that Marlon doesn’t?

Dean gets off two floors below Marlon’s and gets to work repairing the air conditioning system. Three hours later he’s worked his way up to Marlon’s floor. He sees Marlon leave, then he goes to say goodbye to Kate, the secretary, who had been kind enough to offer him coffee while he was working in Marlon’s waiting room. After that he hides in one of the bathrooms for a fucking eternity. After 8 PM he opens the door to the bathroom and flattens himself to the wall behind it. A couple of minutes later he hears the security guard come inside the restroom. He sees the guy’s shadow as he stops to look inside the bathroom. His pulse quickens, nerves strung taut. If waiting in here had felt like an eternity, it’s nothing compared to how long the guard hovers. 

Finally, the guard moves on to open the next bathroom door, look inside, and move on to check the rest of his first round. Dean raises his arm to look at his watch, counting down to when the coast will be clear. He suddenly winces.

_I fucked up._

It’s too late to think about missed details in his disguise. The watch. The watch that’s as much a part of him as his wedding ring by now. The watch that cost a fucking fortune, way above what a blue collar could afford. 

A fucking watch.

He wants to curse out loud, but nobody had recognised him at least.

Next time. He’ll remember next time.

He makes his way out of the bathroom, avoiding the security cameras Mike had told him about. Security isn’t lax, per se, but the real security measures are downstairs by the exits. People in this building work a lot of overtime. Marlon even sleeps here at times, so there’s no alarm triggered by motion detectors to worry about. 

He makes his way to Marlon’s office, noting light coming from under the door in one of the other offices. He goes down on one knee and takes his lockpicks out of the chest pocket of his dungarees. He proceeds to pick the lock like Nick had shown him, throwing nervous glances at the office with the glowing light. He’s nowhere near as fast as Nick is, despite how many times Nick had made him practise, but finally the lock clicks open. He slinks inside and closes the door. He’s inside the waiting room, where he conveniently forgot his toolbox behind an armchair. The secretary has gone home and he goes to her desk. Once again he picks a lock, this time to one of her drawers. It takes way longer and he curses the fact that he can’t just use a screwdriver to pry his way in. It’d be too obvious. Once the drawer is open he takes out the cash box inside. He rolls his eyes in exasperation and picks that lock too. “Bingo,” he mutters under his breath and takes out a set of keys, ignoring cash and credit cards inside. 

He does a quick search of the waiting room to see if there’s a safe or hidden compartment somewhere, but finds nothing. Then he opens his toolbox, takes out his gun in its belt holster and puts it on. He brings the toolbox to the door of Marlon’s office and uses one of the secretary’s keys to unlock it. Mike had been a goldmine of information. Except, of course, when it came to where to find the key card they were after. Nick had snuck into Marlon’s chambers when he slept and gone through his pockets and wallet. 

Nothing.

Their search of Marlon’s apartment a few blocks away from here had also yielded nothing. Nick’s currently on a mission of his own - to search the lawyer’s office and house.

Once Dean’s inside he locks the door and starts searching while keeping an eye on his watch. At 9:15 PM he hides his toolbox behind the desk drawers, draws his gun and goes to crouch down behind the bronze jaguar statue. He tries to mimic its pose as best he can. Once again his pulse is racing. He doesn’t have to wait long before he hears someone enter the waiting room. There’s a short pause then someone unlocks the door to Marlon’s office and does a quick sweep with a flashlight. 

Dean temporarily forgets how to breathe.

The door closes again and the lock clicks shut. Dean waits until he thinks the door to the waiting room is closed too, before exhaling and holstering his gun. He goes back to the desk drawers and opens the top one. Something buzzes his ass. Dean yelps and makes a small startled frog jump, turning around with his heart pounding in his throat. There’s nothing there. At first he thinks he might have gotten a low-powered electrical shock, but there’s nothing there he might have brushed, that leads electricity.

When the sensation comes again against his left ass cheek he doesn’t startle. He reaches back to his ass and touches the free-hanging dungaree back pocket that should have been fucking empty. But no. He feels a familiar outline and pulls out a phone from it. He blinks at the phone in befuddlement, heart still racing. It’s a Samsung Galaxy S7 Edge. It sure as hell isn’t his. It has an alert for two new text messages, which would account for the buzz he felt. His own phone isn’t set to vibrate. 

“What the hell…?” he mutters.

Since he’s a curious fucker he swipes the screen. It’s unlocked. He opens the texts that both are from the same unknown number.

`**Unknown number:** Crafty disguise, Sun Child.`  
`**Unknown number:** I’ll admit, I was a bit disappointed at not being able to see those beautiful eyes of yours. I’m quite fond of how their colours mimic a mottled forest trail on a sunny day. And it ought to be illegal to hide such exquisite facial features behind a beard.`

As Dean reads a new message arrives.

`**Unknown number:** I’m not sure of how to feel about the tattoos. I’ve always admired skin art, but the motifs on your arms were downright ghastly. `

It shames Dean that it takes him almost a full minute to catch up. Elevator. Jostling. Phone. Marlon.

“Sonnova bitch.” He taps out a reply.

`**Dean:** Heya, papa. I thought you knew I was vulgar. Those tattoos shouldn’t come as a surprise.`

`**Unknown number:** In the words you speak, yes. Though I wouldn’t take you for a man who’d disgrace your body with sub-par ornamentation.`

`**Dean:** Nah. You’re right. There are so many better ways to disgrace my body than covering it with ugly ass tattoos I wouldn’t even call art. ;)`

`**Unknown number:** See? There’s the man I’ve gotten to know.`

`**Dean:** It was the watch that gave me away, wasn’t it?`

`**Unknown number:** No. It was your general build, your legs, your facial structure and those devious doe lashes of yours.`  
`**Unknown number:** The watch just confirmed it for me. ;)`

“I fucking knew it!” Dean exclaims. The room is fairly sound proof to stop people in the waiting room from hearing what goes on inside. “Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ ,” he berates himself. He taps out another message.

`**Dean:** I didn’t take you for the type to use smileys.`

`**Unknown number:** I might be old, son, but I’m not technically challenged.`  
`**Unknown number:** I’m hip. I’m cool. I’m down with the squad.`

Despite himself, Dean finds himself laughing silently.

`**Unknown number:** ;D`

Dean covers his mouth with his hand not to giggle aloud. 

_Fuck me, he’s a dork._

Dean puts the phone away and searches Marlon’s desk drawers. He finds a key and pockets it, but nothing else of interest. Or rather, he finds loads of crap he finds interesting, but it’s all work related. He’s gotten very curious about what the Williams family _do_. Mike never spoke much about it, saying it would bore Dean. But the more he learned the more interesting he found it. He vows that once all this is over, he’ll grill both Mike and Cas about the family business.

He moves on to search some cabinets behind him when his phone buzzes again. Unable to stop himself he reads the message.

`**Unknown number:** You can keep the phone if you wish. I bought a new one on my way home.`

Chuckling, Dean sends a reply.

`**Dean:** Aww, gee, papa. That’s awfully dandy of you. I’ve never had such a fancy tracking device before.`

Dean smirks dryly to himself and goes on searching. He looks at his watch. He’s got time before the next guard round. He goes to the wall and lifts the painting off the wall. 

Bingo.

It’s a safe.

`**Unknown number:** You’re funny, son. You make me sniggle like a young man again.`

Dean smiles then inspects the lock on the safe. He’ll need a code.

`**Dean:** That’s great, dad. Then maybe you can tell me the code to your safe as a reward?`

He’s being dumb and he knows it. 

`**Unknown number:** Of course. Which one?`

_Oh, fuck. How many does he have?_

He’s not too keen on actually telling Marlon where he is, even if Marlon most likely has figured it out already. Enough time has passed for the cops to arrive if Marlon would have alerted them. Maybe he’s just waiting for confirmation. 

`**Dean:** I dunno, why don't you take a guess and I'll tell you if you're right. `

`**Unknown number:** Clever boy. But fair enough. I'll play along. The one in my office 04612861, the one under the rug in my other room 99533471, the one in the bookcase in the same room 56134095.`

Dean blinks in bemusement. This can’t be right. Why on earth would Marlon just _tell_ him? And who the hell has codes like that? Aren’t they supposed to be only four numbers?

Still, Dean punches the first code. The little red light turns green. “Sonnova―” He’s disappointed. If Marlon hands him the answer like that, he can’t be hiding what they need here.

`**Dean:** You know, you didn’t have to give me the codes in order to call the cops on me.`

`**Unknown number:** I’m not going to. It would be very hard to claim you were burglarising me when you hold proof in your hand that I gave you the codes. I can’t claim I was under any threat either, seeing as I’m safely tucked away in my quarters at home. My son in law has military training, and I wouldn’t be above testing it out. You could just tell them I told you to test the security if you get caught. `

“Well, I could _now_ ,” Dean mutters to himself.

It makes Dean nervous. Why is Marlon helping him? 

`**Dean:** I’m not going to find anything of interest in here, am I?`

`**Unknown number:** You’ll find plenty of interesting things. It all depends on what you’re after. Why don’t you just tell me what you’re looking for?`

_Oooh. Nice try, papa._

Dean rummages through the safe. A couple of watches, tie pins, cuff links, folders with work-related content. No keycard and no bloody clothes. He’s 99% certain he won’t find any of that in the other safes either, since Marlon handed out their locations and codes.

_Why the fuck is he protecting me?_

He’s tempted to just ask about the clothes, but as Marlon pointed out, if he gets busted, this text conversation will end up being evidence. The last thing he wants is for somebody to read “Buckner” or “bloody clothes” in a way that could be connected to him or anyone in the Williams family. Same goes for Mike’s location. Although…

`**Dean:** How about telling me where Michael is?`

`**Unknown number:** Believe me, son. I want him found as much as you do. But I can’t help you in that department.`

Dean stares at the text, thinking.

`**Dean:** Everybody keeps telling me that you’re a lying son of a bitch that can’t be trusted. But whenever I fact check, anything you’ve said checks out. Why aren’t you lying to me?`

Technically, Marlon’s lying to him about Mike. But he isn’t supposed to know that.

`**Unknown number:** Michael already tried that, didn’t he? It didn’t work out very well, did it? I’m not keen on repeating mistakes, others’ or my own.`

Dean finishes searching the office, restores it to how it looked like before, and stealthily makes his way to Marlon’s other room on the other end of the floor, noting that the person that had been working overtime has left for the night. He unlocks with the key from Marlon’s desk. Once inside he takes some duct tape from his toolbox and tapes it around the edges of the door. Security never ventures in here, just tries the handle according to Mike. Unless Marlon is here, that is, in which case they don’t even try the handle. But since they won’t enter Dean simply blocks the cracks around the door and hits the light switch. He does a thorough search, leaving the safes for last. He stills for a beat when he hears somebody try the handle, but it’s locked, and he goes back to what he’s doing. He notes some scrapes by the bed, as if it’s been moved back and forth a couple of inches fairly often. He pulls it out and inspects the wall, then the headboard. It’s with some elation he finds a hidden panel in the headboard. He quickly works out how to open it, (it’s a helluva lot easier than picking a lock), but its content isn’t what he’s expecting.

He takes out the photo album and the thick folder and sits down on the bed to look through them. The photo album contains family pictures. Just that. Marlon’s wedding picture, pictures of his wife, pictures of his kids both as children and adults - Nick included. Three of the pictures of Nick are from _after_ his disownment. One of which is taken at the same fundraiser or whatever, as the picture of Sam Nick presented Dean with on his birthday. Nick’s holding a camera and is smiling at somebody. Jess is standing nearby talking with somebody and it’s her dress that gives away the occasion more than everything.

_Sonnova―! He spotted Nick and took a photo._

Dean’s gut is twisting uncomfortably. He puts the photo album back and opens the folder. Suddenly he wants to fucking _cry_.

`**Dean:** What do you want from me, Marlon? `

`**Unknown number:** You’re an intelligent man, Mr. Williams. You'll figure it out. `

Dean slowly looks through the thick folder that had been hidden like a dirty secret. A couple of music sheets with pencilled in songs, the top of the sheets saying ‘Winter Morning’, ‘The Polo Pny’, and ‘My Brothers And Me’, all signed ‘by Castiel Williams’ in childish handwriting. There are several kids’ drawings marked by name and age, drawn by all the Williams kids. Beautiful drawings by a teenage Michael, photographs taken by Nick. Dean would have recognised them by their stylistics, but they too are marked with name and age on the back. A CD with the title ‘Anna’s first play’, a couple of recipes for sweets scrawled down by a kid’s hand in crayon. Gabriel’s name and age noted on the back. A photo of a rose bush, ‘Luci’s first hybrid’ written on the back. It’s a treasure trove of memories Marlon allegedly wasn’t there to see, bespeaking feelings and priorities he isn’t believed to have. 

Dean’s eyes sting. He closes the folder and presses his hand over his mouth. How vastly wrong is it not, that both Mike and Marlon feel like they need to hide their emotions in hidden compartments most people would never find? This won’t end well. Dean can’t see this ending in a big family reconciliation. It’s impossible. There’s no way Nick would ever forgive his father. Part of Dean agrees with that. He fucking shouldn’t forgive. Just because Dean’s forgiven every fucking bruise, broken bone, and harsh word that came out of John’s mouth, doesn’t mean Nick should too.

He just wishes it wasn’t _Marlon_.

He puts everything back where it was and checks the safe under the rug. It too is cleverly hidden under a floor panel, but the code checks out. Nothing. Just important papers, contracts and ownership deeds. The safe in the bookcase is hidden behind the books. In there he finds a thick heap of papers that turn out to be all the prenup suggestions that have been proposed by both parties.

Dean takes them to Marlon’s recliner, digs up his cigarettes and lights one with Marlon’s golden lighter. He sits down with the prenups in his lap, sucking on his cigarette. He twirls the lighter in his hand, looking at it. Then he taps out a new text.

`**Dean:** You know I’m here to steal from you, right?`

`**Unknown number:** You already did.`

`**Dean:** Like hell I did. What did I take?`

`**Unknown number:** Peace of mind. Restful hours. Complacency. Boredom. `

Dean smiles with a little flutter in his belly and pockets the lighter.

`**Dean:** Yeah, well, daddy, I’m taking something a little more tangible this time. If you can tell me what it is the next time we meet maybe I’ll give it back.`

`**Unknown number:** Looking forward to figuring it out if it guarantees that we’ll meet again. ;)`

Dean sniggers and puts the phone on the side table while he gets on with reading the prenups. A while later Dean’s on his fifth cigarette, head spinning with the cutthroat bargaining he’s read. He can definitely see why none of the two have agreed to anything, and why both regard each other with such suspicion. Both sides have presented different versions of ‘Shut up and give me all your money!’

He picks up the phone and calls Marlon. The moment he hears the line open he speaks. “I’ve figured out how we’ll solve the prenup thing so Hannah can get married.”

Marlon chuckles in bemusement. “Oh? Please, do tell.” Marlon too has a fucking great phone voice. It’s got that smooth, raspy quality Cas’ has, but a bit softer, in a higher pitch, like Nick.

“Disown her.”

“I’m not going to disown my own daughter if she’s done nothing wrong.”

“Dude, just hear me out. Hannah is head over heels, right? She’s been mooning for Dick since forever. That’s what everybody tells me. She loves Dick…” Dean chuckles. “Can’t blame her. I love _dick_ too,” he jokes and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at the empty room.

“ _Dean,_ ” Marlon reprimands.

“Yeah, yeah, spoilsport. Anyway, Roman claims to love her too, right? But reading his suggestions it looks like he’s just looking for a way to acquisition your assets the same way you planned to do with Bevell, right?”

“Indeed.”

“But if you disown her and get her to sign over all her belongings to you, she’s got squat to bargain for. You can still let her have access to a spending account you own, let her live in the flat and have her act as a full part of the family. You just cut off all her _legal_ claims to the family’s assets. And not behind her back. If she’s as in love as everybody makes it out to be, she’ll say yes. I know I don’t own much of value, but even if I did I’d gladly let it all go if it meant I could marry Nick, or before Mike screwed it up, Mike. Love comes first, to me, right? Y’all have other people to think about and this would protect everybody. You wouldn’t have to put much pressure on Roman either. In case of a divorce, he’d just have to pay an alimony of, I dunno, twenty grand a month? Whatever you guys consider spending money. And he’d have to give her a house with some property, worth maybe five mil? Whatever. Add like fifty grand a month per kid they produce or whatever.” Dean sucks a deep breath of smoke and taps the ashes off in an ashtray.

“I’ve never thought about that solution.”

“‘Course you haven’t. You love your kids and want the best for them. Y’all are a rich bunch and you don’t want anybody to be left behind, seeing not owning stuff like some fucking catastrophe. But you told me, and I’ve seen it myself, that the siblings help each other out. They fucking care. Hannah would still be valuable to Roman as a way of tying the Williams family to himself like allies, but she would no longer be a way of biting off a big chunk of what you own. So I’d say, call a family meeting. All the sisters and Gabe, since he’s in town. Pop this suggestion to them. If they all say yes, you know her siblings got her back. She won’t wind up on the street.”

“If Roman says no, it’ll break her heart.”

“Yeah, but it’d be _Roman_ breaking her heart, not you. And he’d alienate the rest of the family in the process. Nick was kinda excited by the prospect of getting Roman as a brother in law, but he still spent a full night telling Roman about different ways he’d killed people, after he found out.”

Marlon breaks out laughing and Dean grins. “That’s my Luci boy,” he says mirthfully once he’s stopped laughing.

“Yeah. Make it about love. Nobody has to risk losing shit. I dunno what y’all rich folks consider peanuts, but make his part out to be peanuts in case of divorce. An annoyance, not more. And if they do divorce you can easily give her back what she forsook to be with him.”

“It’s an excellent idea, Dean. Thank you.”

Dean preens inwardly and puts the prenups aside. He’s silent for awhile, sucking on his cigarette. “You know you can’t just slap a diamond collar around my neck and string me along. You know that, right? That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he says when he’s hit by another wave of guilt at taking pleasure in the praise.

“Now you’re feeding me imagery that doesn’t converge again.”

“How so?”

“Yes. I would like to put a collar around that strong neck of yours. I’d like that very much. Have you sitting at my feet while I feed you morsels by hand and admire your tantalising beauty. But I have no wish to attach a leash to that collar. The collar would simply signify a symbol of my wishes, not a show of forced servitude.”

Dean swallows and studies the cherry of his cigarette.

Marlon goes on. “As for stringing you along... Imagining you following me - a shadow that outshines the man who casts it, is an equally enticing thought. Though neither of those scenarios include force on my behalf, to make you do these things.”

Dean tips his head back and stares at the ceiling. He keeps his voice light in a way he doesn’t feel. “Now you’re just dirty talkin’, papa. Telling me what I want to hear.”

“Do you, though? Want to hear it?”

No. He doesn’t. Rather, he doesn’t want to want it. It makes him feel like a traitor. He doesn’t answer that. Instead he asks, “You wouldn’t happen to get reports from the police about us, do you?”

“I’m keeping myself updated.”

“So when were they last on our trail?”

“There was an incident not too long ago. A couple of bounty hunters were believed to have found Luci and were hospitalized. No physical evidence was found on the crime scene. There’s only their claim that it was Luci. ...But you say ‘us’. You’re aware they’re only looking for my son, aren’t you? I’ve done all I can to keep your name out of it, Dean.”

_Why? Why? Why?_

“Yeah, but that’s not how it’s going to go down. Ain’t letting him get caught, dad. They find us, I’ll put a bullet between their eyes and I’ll be a wanted man too. They ain’t takin’ him from me. We get off scot free, or we go down in a blaze of glory. Ain’t no inbetween.”

“Dean. Son. Please listen to reason―”

“I am. I’m trying to clean this shitstorm up without anyone getting fucked in the process. But if I can’t, I’m leaving the trenches to join the battle. This war ain’t gonna have a happy ending for everyone involved. I can’t see it ending that way. I’m sorry, papa, but I _can’t_.”

“Dean…” Marlon sounds so fucking sad it hurts.

“Look, I get it. You’re a general. It’s your job to protect the whole army and prevent major losses. But I ain’t. I’m a grunt. My mission is to find Mike, get him to safety, keep Nicky out of jail, protect the family, the family’s assets, and _then_ the rest of the people in our employ. In that order. If I only succeed in the top three, the mission will be considered successful. I’ll try my best to fulfill the rest of the objectives, but I can’t see myself succeeding without any losses. Somebody will have to be sacrificed in this war and we’ll simply have to see who it’ll turn out to be.”

“Our employ, huh?” A tired smile carries through Marlon’s voice. “That’s right, Mr. Williams. Our employ,” he confirms before Dean has any chance to fret about his slip of tongue. “And no army would work without its hands, which is what you are. Tell me… there’s something I’m curious about. How were you planning to get past security downstairs once you’re done with whatever you’re doing?”

“Oh, I’m planning to stroll right by with a cheeky smile while winking at the receptionist. Your toy’s bound to have lost its scent by now, don’t you think?” The security downstairs is insane during night. Even those who worked late had to put up with a lot of shit to get out unless they happened to be a Williams. But after 7:30 AM the receptionist arrived and security went down to a normal level, allowing for employees and visitors alike to come and go with rudimentary scrutiny. At 8 AM the remaining security night shift was traded for a day shift. Dean had simply planned to stay the night and stroll out of there once the new guard shift had arrived.

“Clever. Very clever,” Marlon purrs. “I will need to do something about that lapse in security. It will be taken care of by next week, so if you’re planning on returning incognito, ask me what changes have been made, and I’ll tell you.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, that’s likely.”

“I’d love to chat longer, but I need to go visit a friend,” Marlon informs him.

Dean looks at his watch. It’s almost midnight. Marlon’s about to go down to keep Mike company for a couple of hours. “At this time? Why, _daddy_ , and you who said you didn’t do the dirty. Who’s your _friend_? She gonna give you a free show? Or just choke on yer dick?” Dean purrs. “Fuck, you’re makin’ me jealous, daddy. I thought that was my job.”

Marlon makes an exasperated sound then chuckles darkly. “If you put on a show, Sun Child, I will undoubtedly watch and enjoy. But this isn’t that kind of clandestine meeting, I’m afraid. Not all business I conduct bares being scrutinized in the light of day.”

 _You could say_ that _again._

Dean sniggers. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Hey, Marlon?”

“Yes?”

“If you do a family gathering about the prenup… um… I’d appreciate if my name’s never mentioned.”

“Then it won’t be, son. Have a good night.”

“Thanks, papa. You too.”

After he’s hung up he squishes the cigarette in the ashtray and goes to put the prenup stack back. He gets himself a glass of that awesome Cognac Marlon has, takes a book out of the bookcase at random, and sits down to read. His mind is only partly on ‘The old man and the sea’ that he’s reading. Another part is busy wondering why the hell he trusts Marlon so much, and why Marlon’s helping him?

‘ _I want him found as much as you do. But I can’t help you in that department._ ’

_Maybe that too is true? Marlon’s a general who’s tied his own hands behind his back, using his own word as rope. If he breaks it, his word no longer holds its value and it’s the foundation that holds everything together. So he’s playing a game with me, feeding me hints. But at the same time, he can’t tell me outright. And if I told him what we know, he’d be forced to act with a counter move._

Then, considering the things he found here in the hidden compartment behind the bed, it’s possible that Marlon uses him as a way of telling Nick he still loves him, too.

He shakes his head to himself and proceeds to read the story of the old experienced fisherman whom, after an 84 days long streak of bad luck with no catches, had gone out to catch an uncatchable giant marlin, managed to catch it, only to have it eaten by sharks as he towed it home. “Salao” they’d dubbed him. The word for the worst kind of luck.

* * *

He’d been bold enough to sleep a couple of hours in Marlon’s bed, then used Marlon’s shower and gotten dressed in Marlon’s clothes. Without his fake beard, fake tattoos, wig, or other apparel to make him look like someone else, he pops his head into the waiting room by Marlon’s office. “Heya, Kate. Is papa in yet?”

The secretary startles and looks surprised to see him. “Oh. Hi, Mr. Williams. No, he’ll be here in half an hour.”

“Damned. Alright. Can you give him these?” Dean holds up the key to Marlon’s room and the phone he’d planted on Dean. “Tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t give them back in person, but I really have to go. I have a meeting in forty five minutes,” he lies.

“Of course, Mr. Williams.”

He hands the phone and key over to her and bids her goodbye. On his way he greets every person he recognises with a bright smile. Marlon’s clothes are not a perfect fit on him, but he still blends in well enough. Just as he said he would, he strolls by security with a friendly nod and one last cheeky wink to the receptionist.

* * *


	84. Earth Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter exists due to a stray comment from my wonderful Beta mizz_kitty21. :) Part of a sentence inspired all of this. X)  
> For those of you who're getting impatient, we're closing in. Mike's getting out in a few chapters.

* * *

# Earth Dog

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 9 months) Dean’s known Nick for 3 years

 

“Find anything?” Dean asks when he’s back in Nick’s room at the estate. Nick gives him a dark glower and stops pacing. Then he gives Dean a onceover and smirks.

“Dad isn’t going to like that you’re wearing his clothes.”

Dean’s not convinced about that, but he isn’t going to protest. “Drank his Cognac, nicked his lighter, and slept in his bed too.”

Nick grins with malicious pleasure. “ _Good._ I hope it’ll freak him out when he realises someone has made use of his stuff. We should put the suit back in his wardrobe here at home too. Maybe he’ll think he’s going mad.”

“Yeah, let’s do that. I got squat. Lots of interesting stuff, but nothing that’s interesting to us.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Papers about mergers, investments, acquisitions―”

Nick makes a dismissive motion with his hand and a disgusted noise. “Save it.”

“Oh, and I found a paper saying the last trail on you was when you assaulted the bounty hunters. There was no evidence on the scene so it would be your word against theirs,” Dean lies.

“Good. That’s something at least.”

“Yeah. You didn’t find the envelope at the lawyer’s?”

Nick’s mood sours again. “Oh, I found it alright. Only it didn’t contain a keycard it contained a fucking riddle. I almost went to wake Lawrence up with my gun to his head. But then I thought I should consult you first. Maybe you’d had better luck than me.”

“Thank fuck you did. We don’t want any crimes that can be traced to you, on record. So what was the riddle?” Dean asks and removes the tie he’s wearing.

“There was a note in the envelope and it said ‘Very urgent! The House. Behind the blue marlin. Salao.’ That’s it. That’s all it said.”

“So it’s here at the house, behind a blue marlin somewhere. Salao means the unluckiest or something like that. Maybe it’s a password to a safe?”

“If it is a password it’s probably converted to numbers.” Nick crosses his arms over his chest and makes a thinking face while looking at the ceiling. “19112115.” 19-1-12-1-15, the numbers of the letters in the word Salao. Nick can be smart when he wants to, too.

“Yeah, that sounds likely. All the safes at Marlon’s office had eight digits.” Dean turns his back while he strips out of the clothes. “Nothing for us inside, though. Fuck, I would have loved to have a solution by now. Gabe fixed the stuff we asked for yet?” 

“Yes. How did you manage to crack an eight digit code?”

“Found a note in a locked drawer,” Dean lies without missing a beat. Finally naked he turns around to find Nick staring at him skeptically. Worse - _suspiciously_. His heart flutters nervously. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just… dad’s got one hell of a memory. You don’t think…” Nick’s brow draws down and he purses his lips, tapping a finger against them thoughtfully and troubled. “You don’t think he’s going senile or something like that? Alzheimer is supposed to start gradually, isn’t it? As far as I can remember, he could memorize thirty digit combinations without missing a beat. If he needs notes to remember these days…”

“Dude. He coulda just needed his secretary to put away something for him at some point and written down the codes for her. Ordinary people don’t go around memorizing that kinda codes. Chill.”

Nick grunts and relaxes. “That seems feasible. Sloppy, not to destroy the note afterwards. But then again, if it’s a common occurrence…” He shrugs and Dean wants to sag with relief. Nick takes his phone up and calls someone. Dean goes to find clean clothes, listening with half an ear. “Hi, nana. I was wondering if there’s a blue marlin anywhere in the house? ...uhuh?” Nick chuckles. “No, I mean a stuffed one, a painting, or a toy or something. I’m not trolling for a fish dinner.” Dean sniggers and meets his gaze, Nick rolls his eyes with an affectionate smile and a wink. “Uhuh?...There’s not? You sure about that? Not even in a storage room or something like that?... Okay. Thanks, nana. Love you too. Bye.”

“Anything?” Dean asks, putting on a pair of khaki coloured combat pants.

“Nope. Unless it’s in the cellar.”

“So we’ll search the cellar.”

“For the love of―! Why does it always have to be the cellar? Couldn’t it be the attic for a change? With sunlight streaming in and pretty dust motes flying around,” Nick complains.

“You’ve got an attic?”

“We do. But we don’t actually use... You know what? What if I check the attic and you the cellar?”

Dean bursts out laughing and then does pock pock sounds and mimics a chicken until Nick tackles him onto the bed.

* * *

Dean’s phone rings and he answers. “Anything?”

“I’ve got squat. If you don’t count all of mom’s pretty dresses. You?”

“Dude, this place is _awesome_! There’s nothing in the used parts, and I’m pretty sure there won’t be anything where I am now, but _maaan_. Did you even know you had a sub level? It’s like playing a fucking video game. All that’s missing are the attacking ghouls and skeletons. You’ve got the rotten wood, the rats, the weird decaying stuff, and the random drips and creepy noises,” Dean gushes.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Nu-uh. It’s a fucking maze down here. Most corridors aren’t even real corridors. They’re dug out straight from the earth beside the rock bed. I have to walk crouched down most of the time. It’s fucking brilliant! If I didn’t have a compass app on the phone, I’d be lost by now. Hell, I can’t believe I have reception down here. Just, _awesome_!” Dean stumbles in the darkness and shines his Maglite on an old pick. He crouches down to touch it, only to have the red, rusted iron crumble under his fingers. He thrills in excitement. There’s been really creepy and odd stuff down here. Like a big boulder with white bones underneath. Including crushed pieces of what undoubtedly was a human skull.

“You’re fucking with me. Please tell me you’re _fucking_ fucking with me!” Nick doesn’t sound as thrilled as Dean feels.

Dean chuckles and scrapes on the dirt of the wall just by the pick. There’s a hole there, and as he scrapes at it with his Maglite a clump of dirt comes free and falls down to reveal another duct with water on the bottom. It goes too far for his light to reach its end and is only big enough for him to crawl through, should he venture into it. “Nope. No joke. Hey, how big is the chance that you’d kiss and make up with your old man so we can move in here and live as one big happy family while I spend my days exploring this warren?”

The only answer he gets is a betrayed silence.

He chuckles again. “I’m guessing no, huh?”

“Well, aren’t _you_ bright, to figure that out all by yourself,” Nick replies sarcastically.

Dean backs away from the hole, shining his light in another direction. “Ey. Can’t blame a guy for tr― _Eeaiieek!_ ” Dean shrieks, flails and falls on his ass in fright as something cold, rough, and wet touches his neck. His heart thunders in his chest and a burst of adrenaline shoots through his veins. Frightened, he shines his light in the direction he’d felt the touch. Close by rats scuttle away, frightened by his shriek.

“ _Dean!! Dean, are you alright?!! **DEAN!!!**_ ” Nick screams at him from the phone.

Dean’s light falls on the culprit of his scare and he bursts out laughing. Perhaps a tad bit hysterical with relief. He might not be afraid of neither the dark nor underground tunnels, but the moment he got scared superstition took over. Because if there are crushed skeletons there might be ghosts or creepy killers skulking. Notions easy to dispel with logic. Logic that is banished when you’re touched on the neck in dark, cold, damp underground tunnels. “I’m here. I’m fine. Sorry about that. Just backed into a low hanging tree root, that’s all. Felt it on my neck and freaked,” he explains chortling at his own stupidity.

“I can’t believe this shit! Mikey, are you listening to this shit? And I’m supposed to be in love with this stupid, fucking jackass? _Fuck_!”

“You’re with Mike?”

“Yes. It’s dinnertime. We were supposed to reconvene an hour ago, dickwad. So get yourself up from the fucking subterranean hell you’ve crawled into and get your stupid fucking ass here so we can eat. Fuck!”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and giggles. If Nick’s in the cellar it’s no wonder he’s being pissy. He still goes down to have dinner with Mike and Dean. The two brothers don’t talk with each other more than they have to, and Nick’s waspish. It doesn’t stop him from stroking the door ever so often, or to join in a game of poker through the slot. He’ll last 40 to 60 minutes down there, tops, before he has to leave. But he still goes down to Mike one or two times a day. He also keeps insisting that Dean call Mike and chat with him to dispel his loneliness, even if he himself refuses to talk to him on the phone. “On my way.”

“Don’t dawdle.”

* * *

Dean comes walking towards Nick who’s sitting on a pillow with his back against the door. He’s scowling, face pale and sweaty like always down here. Dean’s grinning like an overjoyed madman. Nick’s holding his phone pointed at him. “Would you look at this bullshit, Mikey? Are you seeing this dickface? He doesn’t even have the fucking courtesy to look ashamed.”

Mike laughs from inside the door. “I don’t know, Luci. I think he looks just like you after you’d been out in the garden with Joshua,” Mike says, voice coming from both inside the door and Nick’s phone.

“I did _not_ have dirt all over myself.”

“Oh, come now. If one had grabbed you and shook you over a flower pot one would have gotten enough dirt to plant something in it,” Mike jokes.

Nick’s lips twitch as if he’s fighting to keep his grumpy mood. He follows Dean with his phone when Dean sits down. “Took you long enough.”

“Sorry. Wasn’t exactly straight corridors down there.”

Mike chortles. “My God! You really are covered in mud, aren’t you?”

Dean suddenly realises what Nick’s doing and silently berates himself for not thinking of it sooner. He turns his head towards the camera on the phone and shrugs with an unapologetic smile.

“You look like Mavis after he’s raided a rabbits’ nest or gone mouse hunting,” Nick states.

“Mavis? You… you’ve got her?” Mike asks. Dean can hear him get up from the floor inside and then he hears the sound of a microwave starting. 

Nick keeps pointing the camera towards Dean, but his gaze on the screen doesn’t waver. “Dean stole him for me when we first got the cops on our tail. He wasn’t very particular about the sex. To him Border Terriers are all Mavises, so Mave is a boy. Love him to bits, though.”

Mike laughs and Dean leans forward, wanting to see him on Nick’s screen. Nick pushes him away with an annoyed expression. “Fuck off, Dean. You deserve a black eye for that stunt you pulled. Going down in a dark unstable tunnel nobody knows exist, without telling us you’re going there? You could have died and we’d never know what happened.”

“Luci’s been giving me a rundown of scenarios that could have happened to you down there, topping each off by explaining how he’d kill you if he was forced to go down there to find you dead,” Mike tells him, sniggering.

“It’s not funny, Mikey,” Nick snipes and throws a dark glare Dean’s way.

“Relax, Luci. He’s _fine_.” The microwaves pings and Mike comes back to the door. He pushes a plate and a fork through the slot. “We’ve eaten already. You took so long getting back.”

“Thanks. I guess this isn’t the best time to tell you I found a human skeleton crushed by a boulder, huh?” Dean teases.

Mike laughs and Nick demonstrates the expression ‘if looks could kill’. Dean takes the plate and shoves some nasi goreng in his mouth or he too will laugh.

“Yeah, go ahead and joke about it you two. But when I heard you scream like that…” Nick mutters.

“Yeah, but it was just a fucking tree root. I’m tellin’ ya, those tunnels are awesome.”

“Had I known you were an earth dog, I’d never would have married you,” Nick grumps unconvincingly.

“Dude. Man’s been living in caves since the first rain storm. Now, _flying_ on the other hand, that ain’t fucking natural.”

“You’re afraid of flying? I never noticed,” Mike queries curiously.

“Yeah, I am. But once you’ve been shoved out of an air carrier with nothing but a piece of fucking cloth to stop your fall, you learn not to let it get to ya.”

Nick smirks. “What are you talking about, darling? Skydiving is nothing but freedom.”

“Yeah, no. Not while they’re shooting at ya at the same time it ain’t.” Or ever, for that matter.

“Fair enough. I’ll give you that.”

“Hey, Mike. You know anything about why the Parson merger has stalled?” Dean changes the subject, curious about one of the papers he’d skimmed through while going through Marlon’s office.

“What? Oh, um…” Mike sounds surprised at Dean’s interest but answers either way. “We found an anomaly in the bank records they provided us with. We’re having it checked over because we think…” Mike goes on to explain, patiently answering all of Dean’s follow up questions while Nick seems to zone out with a frown and turns his head to stare in the direction Dean had appeared from when he came.

“You went by compass down there?” Nick suddenly interrupts them.

“Uh. Yeah. Said so didn’t I?”

“What direction? Point it out to me.”

Dean brings up his phone and opens the compass app, then points northeast. “Why you asking?”

“Because there are no trees in the cellar, dumbass. I’m curious how far away from the building you went.”

Both Dean and Mike go quiet in unison, stilling in a moment of revelation.

“Damn. I didn’t even think of that,” Dean says at last. “I was too excited about having found another level. Now I feel like a moron.”

“It’s no wonder it took you so long to get back. In that direction there are no trees until after the pasture,” Nick muses.

“Far out! Maybe there’s a secret entrance somewhere in the woods,” Dean thrills. He’d once told Nick he wanted a man who made even the most mundane day seem like an adventure. They didn’t _have_ mundane days anymore, but Dean sure as hell loved the adventure. “Hey, Mike, maybe we could use it as an escape route once we get you out?” Dean suggests enthusiastically.

“Black eye. Not kidding,” Nick threatens. “The fuck, Dean? Did your brain turn to mush down there? Getting out of the cellar isn’t a problem. It’s opening this fucking door.”

Mike and Dean both laugh. “But look at him, Luci. He’s gorgeous when he gets all exuberant and fired up like that. I’d gladly crawl through underground mud tunnels to keep that smile on his face,” Mike defends Dean with a smile in his voice.

“So would I, but fuck if I’m going to be glad about it.”

“You can drive the getaway car and wait by the road,” Dean suggests.

“That’s Gabe’s job and you know it. Don’t make this job harder than it already is.” Nick might be snappish and scowly, but he endures longer periods underground when they tease him. Dean thinks he secretly enjoys it, especially from Mike, considering how much he looks at his phone screen and refuses to share it.

“Alright, alright. I give up. But it woulda been cool.”

“Mike told me the door _can_ be opened from the inside after all. You don’t even need a code,” Nick shares, changing the subject.

“Really?”

“Yup. You just need the keycard.”

Dean chuckles. “Problem solved then. Mike, bring out the keycard you’ve got stashed in there and we’ll be on our merry way,” Dean jokes and stuffs the last of his food in his mouth.

Mike snorts and Nick sniggers. “Dean. You do remember that this is a stealth mission, and we need to be on our way soon?” Nick asks.

“Yeah, why?”

Nick looks smug and points in the direction Dean had come from.

Dean looks that way. “Fuck sake. Good you’re here. I swear sometimes my head ain’t in the game,” he says, seeing the muddy footprints he’s left. Nick just smirks.

* * *


	85. The Explorer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, what the hell. I'll just go ahead and post this one too. I'm gagging to get to the rescue so the boys can all kiss and make up. ;)

* * *

# The Explorer

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 9 months) Dean’s known Nick for 3 years

“And you haven’t been able to find any property or house that Marlon owns in the area?” Dean asks, lounging in bed cooped up under Nick’s arm as they’re half sitting, half lying against the headboard.

“Nope. Nothing but those you searched yesterday,” Gabe answers. He’s slouching in the desk chair, spinning it from side to side as they talk. “But I learned all I know about hiding ownership of property from dad. Only he isn’t making a joke out of it like I do. So he wouldn’t use names like Pat McRotch.”

“How about Santiago or Manolin? Can you find any house or land owners by that name in the area?” Nick suggests. He’s read ‘The old man and the sea’ too. Since that is their biggest clue this far it's only logical to jump to the conclusion that Marlon would use names from the book.

Gabe makes a quick call to Charlie, ordering her to find it out for them. Dean’s yet to meet any of Gabe’s core team, but he thinks there’s a good chance he’ll like them. They seem to be a deviously cheeky bunch, always up to Gabe’s mischief. And not only for the pay but for the fun of it all. Gabe on the other hand, hates the law with a passion and has made a sport out of breaking it. Why that is exactly, is a mystery. Nick doesn’t know and Gabe only gives flimsy excuses. This hate might be what earned him the loyalty of his team, who all at one point or another, have been in prison for various non-violent crimes. Charlie’s a hacker, Hilda used to be a romance scammer, and Chuck’s a conman. 

“What about the lawyer? Lawrence? He’s Marlon’s man or the whole family’s?” Dean asks and lights a cigarette with Marlon’s golden lighter. Gabe thinks they’re digging on Marlon because they want retaliation about the kidnapping allegations he posed towards Nick. And, yeah. He’s not _wrong_. But they haven’t told him the full truth yet.

“The whole family’s. Good man. He’s been under death threat twice by people wanting to get to us and still kept his mouth shut. And I’m not talking about verbal threats either. No, once at gunpoint and once they hid a bomb in his house, intending to blow the whole thing up, wife and kids and pets included, and he still held his silence. Now _that’s_ loyalty,” Gabe answers.

“Fuck,” Nick mutters and gestures for Dean to pass him the cigarette.

Fuck indeed. 

If the search for Marlon’s mystery house didn’t pan out, their backup plan was to do exactly what Nick had been on the verge of doing when he found the envelope. Persuade the lawyer to talk by any means necessary. Dean’s glad he asked though. That could have ended in a disaster. And Nick’s shadowed Marlon several nights to see if he could have put away the card somewhere along the way if he was carrying it on his person during the day. He’d gone through his wallet (again), combed his clothes for hidden pockets (again), searched his quarters (again). 

Nothing. 

Nick’s convinced that if he’s not carrying it on his person, he won’t talk under threat or torture, something Dean’s secretly relieved about.

“So you’ve been living here for almost two weeks now and nobody’s noticed?” Gabe asks.

“Yup.”

Gabe sniggers and rubs his hands together in delight. “How did you even think of that? It’s brilliant!”

“My Darling’s quite a deductor when he wants to be,” Nick says smugly and strokes Dean over the hair. Then he turns his head to give Dean a slightly disgusted look. “Other times he’s tracking mud all over the floor like a fucking kid.”

Dean giggles and gives him an adoring look, winking at him conspiratorially. One day they'll let Gabe in on the inside joke, but not today.

* * *

Dean’s been down exploring the sub-level of the cellar the whole day. He’s doing it properly too. Helmet with a head light, flashlight, knife, equipment for hacking in stone and digging if he needs to, compass, plastic sheets to write on with water resistant markers, camera to take pictures of landmarks - the works. He’s drawing a map as he goes, often checking and jotting down his coordinates. The entrance had been close to the wall in the north of the cellar, and the first couple of rooms had actually been that - rooms. After that everything turned into confused seemingly haphazard channels, reinforced with crumbling brick or withering wood beams in some places, bare stone or earth in others. Dean suspects that most of this warren has been carved out by an underground river at some point. He more or less gets it confirmed when he belly crawls through a long duct going downward, almost getting stuck in the process. (Nick’s fears weren’t unfounded, okay? But it’s not like he’ll ever admit that.) When he crawls through the end of the duct he comes into a huge fucking _cave_. The ceiling is low but it’s complete with stalactites and stalagmites. It’s fucking _awesome_. Down here he can _feel_ the earth pressing down on him from above. He’d say that only a small portion of the tunnels he finds are man made. His theory is that somebody started to build an expansion of the cellar, came upon a tunnel carved by the underground river and got bit by the explorer bug. Although, most man made structures are found in the northeast. They all lead straight ahead or upward. He’s in the south now and that awesome reception in the northeast? Hah! Yeah, no. Here he probably couldn’t get reception even if he made a deal with the devil.

He hasn’t found any way out that would allow for a man to pass, though, so it’s very possible there is none. He still feels like Dr. Livingstone or something. 

This is totally going into his memoires.

A backside of getting caught up in this is that he’s forgotten all about time or eating. When he finally comes back up he can hear people talking in the cellar. At first, he thinks it’s Mike and Nick. He shuts off his lights. He doesn’t need them here. He’s gotten familiar enough with the way from the room with the hatch in the floor to the dungeon, and he’s made a sport out of sneaking that way mostly because it scares the hell out of Nick when he just materialises out of the darkness half-way through Mike’s corridor. He leaves his equipment and quickly changes into other clothes and shoes he’s left here to make sure he doesn’t track mud all over the place, then makes his way towards Mike.

Today he’s glad he’s such an asshole towards his husband, because the man sitting on a pillow by Mike’s door isn’t Nick - it’s Marlon. Dean melts into an archway of a room before he comes within reach of the lamplight that would expose him.

Once tucked away against the wall of the room he takes up his phone to send Nick a text, only to see 12 unread texts. It’s with a mix of guilt and mirth he reads the increasingly panic-aggressive texts, promising to kill him if he’s dead. It’s fucking 1 AM. No wonder Nick’s freaking out. He sends a text saying he’s fine and will be back as soon as Marlon’s gone, then tucks his phone away to wait and listen.

“Can you get me a new poster to exchange for the ugly boat painting?” Mike asks.

“You haven’t figured out the answer yet.”

“Dad. I’ve stared myself blind at that ugly painting. There’s nothing to be learned from it. I know you like us to learn things by figuring them out ourselves, but seriously, dad. It’s just a boat. There’s no wisdom to be gained from it except for what colours not to use when painting the ocean.”

Marlon chuckles affectionately at Mike’s exasperated tone. “Once you figure it out you can have any painting you wish, but not before.”

Mike makes a petulant sound just to perk up again the next second. “How did the family meeting go?”

“It went well. Hannah was all for it and the rest were positive. Gabe decided we should all give it a couple of days to think it over. He wanted to bring it up with Cas too. But I expect it to be accepted by everybody. I’ve already alerted Lawrence to prepare all the paperwork. It’s quite a time-consuming process cutting one of you off legally.”

“As I remember, it wasn’t much of a process when you cut Luci off,” Mike says.

Marlon makes a noncommittal sound. “Were you paying much attention at the time?” he asks.

Dean frowns. It seems like Marlon’s being evasive.

“No. You’re right. I wasn’t,” Mike agrees. “Speaking of Luci, what’s the latest report on him?”

“Nothing since the bounty hunters.”

“Good.”

There’s a silence, then Marlon says, “Dean stopped by at my office a while back. They’re looking for you, you know?”

Mike mutters something too silently for Dean to hear, then, “But why? Why couldn’t they just skip the country like they were supposed to? Why won’t they just _go_?”

“They love you, Michael.”

“Yes, but _why_? The things I’ve done and said to Luci… he should _hate_ me.”

Marlon hums. “It’s the people we love the most we most easily forgive and accept abuse from. You should know, Mikey. The things you’ve forgiven Luci for, even when you didn’t think you deserved what he did, pinning it down to ‘that’s who he is’.”

“ _Da-aad_. Can we not go there again?” Mike whines. Marlon obliges and changes the subject.

Dean finds it interesting how Mike flips between sounding like a whiny teenager, a guy just talking to a friend, and the smart business man he is, depending on the subject when he’s talking with his dad.

He feels a sharp sting of jealousy. He hates himself for feeling it. It just comes over him. Mike might be locked up but he and his dad are having a fairly open conversation that’s both entertaining and has an affectionate undertone. Marlon takes it in stride when Mike gives him the sulky child’s side. Dean would have killed to have had that with John. Coming home on leave to sit down and have a beer together and just shoot shit. Or just be able to say ‘ _Da-aad_ ,’ in that petulant tone and not get a sharp reprimand for it. And Sam. Luci and Mike are in a middle of a long-standing fight and still they tease each other with affection. The Williams family is a great family to be part of, (Hah!) despite how fucked up they still are. The ones he’s met have all welcomed him with open arms to different degrees, and yet he finds himself jealous because he couldn’t get this with his own family. How ridiculous is that? Mike’s locked into a fucking vault and he’s jealous because the two of them can uphold a decent conversation with each other? Fucked up.

He wishes he hadn’t promised Sam to stay away.

Marlon eventually leaves and Dean goes to wish Mike a quick goodnight before he heads upstairs.

“Dean! Where have you been? We’ve been worried to bits. Luci’s been down here at least seven times tonight. If you hadn’t shown up by the time father left, he would have gone down to search for you.”

“Dude. There’s a whole cave system down there. He coulda been lost for days without equipment if he’d gone south like I did.”

“There is?”

“Uhuh. It’s _so_ cool. There are caves with stalactites and shit.” Dean’s stomach rumbles loudly.

“Have you eaten anything?” Mike queries with troubled voice, annoyingly enough a lot more interested in Dean’s general health status than the super cool exploration Dean’s been on today.

“No. I forgot. I found thi―”

“You _forgot_?” Mike cuts him off. “Jesus, Dean, you’ve been down there since 8:30 this morning. Sit down, I’m getting you dinner.” His voice recedes as he walks away from the door. “Luci brought me pizza so I still got the dinner father brought me. You can have that.”

Dean sits down. It’s not like he hasn’t gone without food before. No biggie. He’d be pouting, except the food Marlon supplied Mike with on a daily basis is fucking delicious, so he can’t help but thinking that between pizza and Marlon’s food, Dean’s getting the better end of the offered deal.

Once Mike’s returned with the heated meal of char, homemade potato mash, vegetables, and dill sauce, they sit talking while Dean eats.

“So what’s wrong with the painting?” Dean asks with his mouth stuffed with food. 

“It’s ugly. Just a boat at sea. Father has a knack of giving us pointless things, telling us there’s a lesson to be learned from it. He’ll never tell us what it is, though. In this case, he claims he’ll know if I have the right answer without me telling him about it. It’s stupid. Anyway, did you hear about the family meeting?”

“What was it about?” Dean asks feigning cluelessness.

“Hannah’s prenup. Dad suggested…” Mike goes on to tell Dean about the suggestion Dean had given Marlon, and Dean can’t help his smug grin. Getting his advice used is even better praise than simple words.

* * *


	86. Complacency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Warning: Graphic depiction of coldblooded murder**
> 
> Writing this chapter made me very uncomfortable. Sensitive readers beware.

* * *

# Complacency

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 10 months) Dean’s known Nick for 3 years, 1 month

They’re at a standstill. Mike’s continued to urge them to leave the country until Nick lost his temper and spent five whole minutes kicking at the door while giving Mike a piece of his mind. Mike wisely doesn’t suggest it anymore.

It was actually interesting to watch, Dean thinks. Because before Nick ‘exploded’ he sat quietly listening in while Mike tried to convince Dean that they should just go, watching Dean and looking bored while _Dean_ was the one clinging onto his calm by a thread. Dean swears it was a thought-through decision on Nick’s part to ‘lose’ his temper. It had worked too. Mike hasn’t said a peep about the issue since it happened.

Although…

“Maybe Mikey is right. Maybe we should just go? Dad will let Mike out once we’re gone, so maybe―”

“Quit it,” Dean says and throws a wadded up dirty sock at Nick to make him shut the fuck up. He sits down in the desk chair beside the door to watch Nick continue pacing his room. “We ain’t leaving here without Mike. This ain’t up for discussion. We made a choice. Get the hell outta dodge leaving the past behind, or stay to find and rescue Mike. We found him, we’re takin’ him with. You feelin’ antsy you can go ahead and hole up in France ‘til I’ve figured out how to get Mike out. I ain’t judging if you do that. But I. Ain’t. Leavin’.”

Nick stops his pacing to look at Dean for a beat. “Yes. You’re right. Of course. It’s just getting on my nerves that we can’t find the solution. And now we can’t even find new questions to ask,” he complains. 

“We’ll figure it out. Knowing your old man the solution’s probably right under our noses, just waiting for us to figure it out.”

“You don’t know my dad, darling.”

“Doesn’t he have a knack of giving you seemingly pointless things, telling you there’s a lesson to be learned from it?”

Nick gives him a disgruntled look. “Fair point. Still...” He resumes his pacing without expanding on his thoughts. Not that it matters. Dean’s as stumped at the moment as he is. They’re nearing the point where they’ll have to resort to extreme measures. Exactly what those extreme measures would entail, is another matter. Dean hasn’t had the guts or the lack of brainpower to bring up the marriage deal he’d jokingly negotiated with Marlon. It’s not something he’d like to go through with, but if it meant everybody stood a chance of happiness and freedom, then he wouldn’t be completely opposed it. It would take some re-negotiating to make sure he’d be allowed to keep up his friendship with the brothers, and that all evidence Marlon had, that might be used against Nick be destroyed. All in all, though, there are worse options.

They’ve been completely stalled for two weeks now. Mavis had been left in Hilda’s care so they could spend some time with the dog on a daily basis, Dean’s continued to explore the underground tunnels, Nick’s helped Gabe mine for corporate information and set up elaborate practical jokes, so they hadn’t been twiddling their thumbs or they might have gone mad. 

Nick had also given him a ton of crap for going down in the tunnels―no surprise there―but he’d also followed Dean down there by his own suggestion, which was a surprise. They didn’t venture far then. Dean just showed him the man made parts. But the courage and love it signified made Dean weak in the knees. Nick had also given him three books. One about mining, one about cave explorations, and one about geology. He’d topped it off by surprising Dean with a box with a bow on, placed over the hatch to the sub-level. Inside Dean found top notch equipment for exploring caves. Instruments to measure how deep down he was, the level of oxygen, distance walked and in what direction (that didn’t require an internet connection), oxygen tank and a shitload of other things that would prevent Dean from getting hurt or lost down there. If that isn’t a grand gesture of respect and love, then Dean doesn’t know what is.

Dean opens his mouth to answer Nick just as the door opens and an unfamiliar woman in maid’s clothes steps inside the room.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, Nick stops dead, and the woman inhales sharply in startlement. 

For a moment time stands still and all Dean can hear is his own panicked pulse in his ears.

Then the maid draws breath and lets out a high pitched scream.

Dean launches himself off the chair and grabs her by the arm simultaneously as he throws a punch at her head. Her scream is abruptly cut off and she collapses to the floor. 

Nick strides to the maid and goes down on a knee beside her, ready to pacify her if she wakes up. He checks her pulse and her eyes, then gets up. “Well, fuck.” 

Dean stands in the doorway listening intensely for anybody who could have gotten alerted by the short scream. His heart is pounding nervously, adrenaline flowing. He can’t hear anyone. Minutes drag by like eons.

“Anything?” Nick asks.

Dean shakes his head. “I think we’re in luck.” He closes the door, remembering to lock it this time, and turns towards Nick. “You know who that is?” he says and nods towards the unconscious woman at their feet.

“Never seen her before. She’s too young to have worked here when I lived here.”

Dean could see _that_ for himself. “Fuck. So what do we do now?”

“We could try talking to her. Maybe she’ll keep her mouth shut with enough incentive?”

* * *

Isobel Parker, 24 years old, Long Island resident. That’s who she is according to the driver’s license they’d found in her wallet. They’ve tied her to a chair and gagged her, then Nick settled down to wait in a chair opposite of her, while Dean hovered by the (now locked) door in case of other intrusions.

She wakes up, blinks groggily and confusedly at them then tries to move. They can see when her brain catches up to her predicament. Her eyes go wide and she tugs at her bindings. She makes sounds against the gag, expression terrified.

Nick reaches out and hovers a hand above her knee in a placating gesture while making a shushing noise. “Hey, hey. Calm down, sweetheart. We don’t want to hurt you. This is just a precautionary measure, okay? We don’t want to hurt. We just want to talk, okay?” Nick assures with a sympathetic expression.

Isobel stills.

“That’s right, girl. We just want to talk. So if you promise not to scream, I’ll take the gag off. You promise?”

Hesitantly, Isobel nods.

Nick reaches out to tug the gag out of her mouth. Even knowing what he’s about to do she curls away from his hand in fear and disgust, squeezing her eyes shut. Nick tugs the gag down then leans back. Isobel unfolds again hesitantly, chest heaving, eyes still terrified, angry.

“There we go, sweetheart. Like I said, we just want to talk. What’s your name?” Nick asks with a soft voice. 

Isobel presses her mouth to a thin line and stares at him in fearful defiance.

“Fair enough,” Nick says when it’s apparent that she won’t answer. “Let me start with the introductions. My name is Lucifer Williams. I’m the second oldest son of Marlon Williams, your employer.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” she sneers gutsily. “I’ve seen you on TV. You’re the guy who’ve kidnapped Michael Williams. I ain’t telling you _shit_.”

Nick strokes a hand over his mouth and tilts his head, looking at her from under hooded eyelids. “I know what they’ve said on TV, sweetheart. It isn’t true. I’m here on a mission to find my brother and rescue him. I love him. I would never hurt him.”

“Hah! You expect me to believe that? I’m not that stupid.”

“Hey, lady, it’s the truth, alright?” Dean butts in.

“Says the spurned lover of Mr. Williams,” Isobel mocks.

Two hours later they’ve made no leeway. Isobel is just as rebellious as ever. No kind words, offers of cash or anything else has worked. Nick and Dean share a look, then Nick leans forward to tug the gag back in place. Isobel spits him in the face. Nick doesn’t even flinch. Isobel tries to bite him when he gags her again. Dean notes certain shifts in Nick’s otherwise blank expression. He almost seems pleased with her feisty lack of cooperation. Once she’s gagged again Nick comes to the door to lean his head close to Dean’s so they can talk without being overheard. “I don’t think we’ll get her to keep her mouth shut, darling, and I’m not too keen on finding a new place to live.”

“I don’t think so either. I suspect she’s the new girl they hired after they fired the other one for theft. A fucking shame. She’s just at the wrong place at the wrong time. But the mission comes first. We might have to silence her.”

“I can do it.” Nick’s voice is too light, too offhanded. His expression is too hopeful, like he really wants to kill an innocent woman and is trying not to show it.

“Yeah, no. There’s another possibility. I’ve got a plan. If we...” Dean lays out the plan. He doesn’t like it, but it’ll solve their problem. And if they’re really lucky they can convince her to shut up without going through with all of it.

Nick smirks then backhands him. “You fucking _idiot_. Don’t you ever make suggestions like that again, jackass.”

Dean hunkers his shoulders nervously. “I’m sorry, Sir. It was just a thought.”

“I’m not keeping you around to think. Now you stay here and watch the skirt until I get back,” Nick says in a mean tone of voice and points a stern finger in Dean’s face.

“Yes, Sir.”

Dean cowers and Nick gives him a hard look before leaving the room and closing the door after himself.

Dean locks and goes to sit down on the desk chair. Isobel had been watching the two of them and now she makes a sound. Dean ignores her.

He ignores her for thirty minutes, all while he pretends to get more and more bored, bouncing his leg, making fart noises with his mouth, casting random glances at the door and her and generally amping up the fidgeting. There’s no clock in her view so for her it must feel like an eternity.

He gets up and goes to fetch a soda from the nightstand. He opens it and takes a couple of lukewarm swallows. He’s about to sit down in the chair again when he throws her a glance and halts his movement. “You thirsty?”

She just stares at him.

He walks over to her and pulls down the gag. “You thirsty? You want some?”

She doesn’t answer, just looks at him suspiciously, frightened, uncertain.

“Look, lady. I ain’t gonna force you to drink. I just figured your mouth outta feel parched from that gag. So you want some or not?”

“Yes, please,” she answers carefully like she expects him to make fun of her.

“Alright. Sorry ‘bout the cooties. Only have one can.” Dean holds the can to her lips. “I'm gonna tip it now, okay? Tip your head.” She does and he follows the motion to let her drink, righting the can when she tries to tip her head forward again. “You good, or you want more?” Dean asks once she’s swallowed and taken a couple of breaths.

“More.”

They repeat the process, but this time Dean fails to right the can fast enough, and a little dribble run down her chin. “Shit. Sorry. Let me just…” He puts the can away and goes to fetch a tissue by the bed. “I’m just gonna…” he explains and looks her in the eyes, raising his eyebrow in question and waiting for a little nod before he dabs her chin off. “If you promise not to scream, I’ll leave the gag off. Can’t be comfortable havin’ it in.”

“Thanks.”

Satisfied, Dean goes back to his chair. Isobel is quiet, looking at him. He picks on an imaginary loose thread on his thigh. “Look. I’m sorry, alright? You shouldn’t have come in here. It was dumb. You know this room’s off limits, right? If Marlon or Naomi knew you’d come here, you’d gotten fired anyway, even if we weren’t squatting here. But this wasn’t supposed to happen. I never wanted anyone to get hurt.”

“I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. They know you’re here?”

“Of course not. That’s why we came here. Cops would never look for us here. You’re the new girl, right?” Dean looks up at her with a mix of curiosity and regret.

“Yes. I’ve only been working here for a couple of weeks. You’re Dean, right? Marlon’s ex-lover?”

“You read gossip rags then, huh? Yeah, I’m Dean. Isobel, right?”

“How did you know?”

“We found your driver’s license in your wallet. He went to your house to check if you have family or a boyfriend. Someone to use as leverage to keep you to from ratting him out.”

Isobel’s face is the very image of consternation.

Dean raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Keep calm. I’m really sorry. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. We don’t want to hurt you. I mean it. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Isobel’s chest is heaving and it takes her a moment to calm down after the revelation that they’ve got her address. “Why are you helping him? You seem like a good man, Dean. He’s a monster. I saw how he treats you.”

Dean looks away and shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I ain’t got a choice in the matter. He owns me, okay? If I didn’t help, I’d be screwed.”

“Help me, Dean. Let me loose. We can go to the police together. They’ll get him and we’ll both be safe.”

Dean gives her a look of pained regret. “I’m sorry, but if you insist on going to the police, I can’t help you. The only way you can get out of this without getting hurt, is if you keep your mouth shut. Hell, he’d even pay you for it. A grand in cash a month to keep pretending this room doesn’t exist and that you never broke the rules you were given for the job. He might have a temper but he’ll keep his word.”

“I can’t do that. People like him are dangerous! I’ve seen his like before, Dean. It’s in his eyes. He’s the guy that’ll follow you on deserted streets and turn away if somebody comes. People like him need to be put away. Please, you got to help me!”

“He’s not as bad as he seems. We’re trying to rescue his brother. Somebody took Michael, but it wasn’t him. And now he’s all stressed out about it…” Dean spends hours trying to get Isobel to agree to keep quiet. He even feeds her some truths and conjures a sob story of what will happen to Michael and Dean himself if Nick’s removed from the playing board. Nothing. She has her mind set no matter how much he tries to be sympathetic towards her, bonding. The good cop bad cop routine isn’t working.

Nick calls. He’s done what he went away to do and will be there in a couple of minutes. Dean wants to throw up at the hopeful look on Isobel’s face when he goes to her. The horrified and betrayed look in her eyes when he chokes her out makes him even more nauseous. She’s innocent. Just a dumb fuck girl who was stupid enough to go where she was explicitly told not to, and they’d gotten complacent, forgotten to lock the door.

* * *

Nick brought everything they needed. Plastic sheets, a hockey trunk, a plastic sack, a change of clothes from Isobel’s home taken from her dirty laundry, a kitchen knife from her kitchen. He’d already taken a lot of valuables from the estate and stashed them in her home. He’d be going back when they were done and stash some more along with a plastic bag with her bloody clothes in the boyfriend’s car. Dean would drive her car off into the woods and light it on fire.

Isobel is unconscious, laid out on a plastic sheet on top of the bed. Nick and Dean are both wearing plastic gloves. Dean’s pulse is racing and his gut is churning. They’re about to kill someone in cold blood. He’s killed before but this is different. She isn’t a soldier. This is crossing a line he'd never seen himself cross. Killing a defenceless girl while stone cold sober. 

He’s undoing her work shoes and removing her socks while Nick’s buttoning down her maid’s dress. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees her breasts being laid bare. She isn’t wearing a bra and Dean feels like a disgusting creep for seeing her boobs without her sayso. Not that he has any interest in her boobs but that's not the point. 

Nick’s hands stop unbuttoning. Dean’s head snaps up when he catches a glimpse of Nick’s hand cupping a boob, pinching a nipple. “Nick, the _fuck?_ ” 

“What? It's not like she's going to press charges,” Nick defends himself but retracts his hand and continues with his task.

“ _That’s_ what holding you from molesting women? Fuck sake, Nicholas. Then how about not fucking cheat right before my eyes, you fuckhead,” Dean scolds utterly appalled.

Nick keeps his gaze downcast and blushes hotly. At least he looks ashamed. “It’s not cheating if she’s dead,” he mutters.

“Oh, fuck. That is seriously _the_ grossest thing I’ve ever heard somebody say. Seriously, Nick. What the fuck?”

“I didn’t mean it like _that,_ ” Nick backpedals. His shoulders and head lower, draws inward in shame. Cheeks reddening even more. 

“Yeah, no. I know you said you’re a sick puppy, but that takes the fucking price. It doesn’t matter how you meant it. Whether it was about fucking corpses or that it doesn’t count just because she’s about to be killed. I _never_ want to see even a _hint_ of that kind of thinking again or I swear, I’ll fuck you up. Is that fucking clear, soldier?”

“Yes.” Nick casts a glance his way with the expression of a kicked puppy.

“Good. I trust you to be a professional, not a creep. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got urges or whatever, you pimp yourself out. Do jobs for Roman or whatever. But make sure the targets are people who know they play a dangerous game. No fucking innocent girls who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Understood?”

“Yes?” Nick’s expression has turned to one of confusion. Like he can't wrap his head around that Dean would be fine with him working as an assassin, while at the same time giving him a hard time about this.

“And never, _never_ make it about sex, you hear? Never. If what I let you do to me ain’t enough, then we’re gonna have a problem, because that shit you just did, is crossing a line I can’t fucking get behind. Is that clear?”

“Crystal. I won’t. It’s more than enough. Thank you.”

“Don’t say thank you, you sick fuck. I’m fucking pissed.” Dean goes to fetch the bag with Isobel’s private clothing and throws it on the bed beside her. “Professional,” he demands. He’s a fair bit upset. Like the guilt of killing an innocent woman and pinning the blame on her boyfriend isn’t enough. They’re setting it up to look like the murder happened someplace else so that cops won’t go here to investigate. Dean’s never felt guilty about killing a combatant. An enemy soldier had, just like him, signed up for the risk. His nightmares consisted of people he’d failed to save. He remembers his state of mind right after Nick first fucked him and then went AWOL. He’d honestly been ready to climb a clock tower with a sniper rifle and shoot fucking anyone who’d have the misfortune to pass below. But that was then. Constantly drunk, betrayed by Mike, by his family, by Nick, by the army―he’d wanted to set the world ablaze and watch it burn. Now he had a family where loyalty ran strong. There was light in the end of the tunnel. He’d married a killer and been accepted by a family that was corrupt through and through, but with a shitton of love and loyalty. What they’re doing now makes him one of the bad guys. It’s no longer gray. But fuck it. He’s happier as a bad guy than he’d ever thought he could be again. He’ll deal. But there’s gotta be ethics and fucking standards.

Nick finishes undressing and redressing the unconscious Isobel without any more slip-ups of whatever darkness lurking underneath the surface. Together they move her to the plastic sheet on the floor. Dean grabs the knife they’ve gotten from Isobel’s house before Nick can do it. 

Fuck, but he _really_ doesn’t want to do what he’s about to do.

It would be so easy to just let Nick do this. Nick, who by all appearance would fucking enjoy it. 

But that’s the point. Partly it’s about punishing Nick for that gross behaviour towards Isobel as well as his comments about cheating. Partly it’s about picking sides.

Nick holds Isobel’s wrists and Dean straddles her legs in case she wakes up.

Dean takes a couple of deep breaths, face twisting in regret and disgust. Then he draws his hand back for leverage and brings it down as hard as he can, stabbing her in the chest. Isobel’s eyes fly open when the knife penetrates. She tries to scream but Nick covers her mouth with his hand. Dean stabs her four more times.

He takes up a ziplock bag lying beside him, drops the knife in it and remains sitting, gaze locked with Isobel’s shocked, pain riddled and horrified eyes while she bleeds out or drowns in her own blood. His gut keeps turning, wanting to throw up its content. It doesn’t take very long for her weak struggles to stop and the light of her soul to die away from her eyes. He lifts his gaze to meet Nick’s eyes. Nick’s a 100% focused on him, a whole range of emotions in his eyes but Dean can’t read a single one. “It’s done. Let’s get her clothes off,” he states. His voice is so hard and flat that he doesn’t even recognise it. Nick nods in affirmation.

They undress her and put her bloody clothes in another ziplock bag, then put her in a big trash bag and puts that in a hockey trunk to make it easier to carry. Nick folds the plastic sheet carefully to keep the blood on it inside, and puts that in yet another ziplock bag. He’ll be using it to plant blood in her house if he can get it there fast enough for it to be a viable option.

They split up.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Isobel. But you shoulda taken the offer,” Dean tells the naked corpse as he stashes it away in an underground tunnel. “I really didn’t want it to end like this, but you brought it on yourself. Not enough work ethics to follow the rules of the job, but too much self-righteousness and foolishness to keep your mouth shut. What was it that you wanted? The fame of catching somebody wanted by the feds? Be seen as a fucking hero on TV? Marlon’s reward? Believe me, he wouldn’t have been grateful.” He’d chosen a duct in the earth, in a part of the sub level where there were a lot of rats and insects about. The risk of discovery was greater than if he’d stashed her far down in an underground cave, but he thinks that vermin will eat her down to the bone if he leaves her here. “You read the wrong rag. If you’d read Gold Crusted you’d have known I’m fucking _married_ to Nick. I ain’t gonna betray him for nothing, you hear? _Nothing_. The world can go to hell if they think I’ll choose them before the people I love ever again. Fuck them. Fuck everybody. My so called country doesn’t care for me, so why should I care for y’all? _Fuck_!”

This is so far off the grid. There’s no turning back. He’d made his choice and he’ll stand for it, but there’s a litany of ‘Fuck!’ and ‘Why?’ playing on repeat in his head. 

“Sleep well, Isobel,” he says, crawls backwards on all fours until he comes out in a bigger tunnel, then he covers the entrance with packed earth. His eyes fall on the withered pick and he snorts and shakes his head.

This is who he is now.

Still a soldier with a cause, doing what needs to be done.

At least no member of his squad have been hurt in this mishap.

That’s all that matters.

* * *


	87. Another Solution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's closing in, folks! :D In the next chapter they rescue Mike!

* * *

# Another Solution

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 10 months) Dean’s known Nick for 3 years, 1 month

 

“Aren’t we at least going to talk about it?” 

“Talk about what?”

“Don’t play stupid, darling. You know what I mean. The maid,” Nick grumps impatiently and nuzzles Dean. He smells of sweat, cigarettes, and of Dean. Good scents, all of them. It’s amazing how he doesn’t even think twice about being naked with Dean these days. He still avoids scrutinizing himself in the mirror though. And if Gabe knocks on the door while Nick’s undressed he’d scramble to cover up his scars. 

“What’s there to talk about? She’s dead. Her boyfriend’s arrested for her murder despite no body being found. By all appearance we got off scot free and if Charlie gets a whiff of us coming under fire, she’ll warn us. Drop it and move on, Nicky,” Dean grumbles drowsily. His body aches from their lovemaking and he’s edging into that wasteland between wakefulness and sleep.

“Your fake cheeriness since the incident is driving me nuts.”

_Oh. That._

His bad conscience is still digging on him, and he might have overacted his don’t-give-a-shit attitude. Just a tad. Not much.

It’s not like Nick’s been of any help. He’s walked around treating Dean like a ticking time bomb.

Dean wishes he wouldn’t.

“I’m a murderer and everything is fucking fine. Why can’t you just get the fuck over it and let me sleep?”

“That’s also part of what I’m talking about. If you feel that strongly about it, we should talk it over and―”

Dean slaps a hand over his mouth to shut him up. “And what? Look, this shit ain’t something I wanna talk about. Do I have a bad conscience? Yeah. I’m pretty sure Isobel’s death will haunt me forever. Would I do it again? Hell yeah. It’s us against the world, remember? If it’s necessary to keep you, us, the family, safe, I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I might not be at peace with her death, but the reason she had to die was crystal clear and we had a deadline to consider. If we hadn't planted the evidence so quickly, they might have come here to search for her. In the army, I once had to blow up a bridge with civilian vehicles on to stop the tanks that were on the same bridge. That didn’t feel great either. Just leave it be and let me cope with it. I made my choice,” Dean lectures. “If we're going to talk about something, we can talk about why the fuck you're walking on eggshells around me ever since it happened.”

“I’m not sure how you feel about me since my… since I… um…”

“Copped a feel?” Dean fills in for him.

Nick hums an affirmative.

“I love you same as always, fuckwad. Ain’t no fucking difference.”

“Yes, but…”

“Dude, _chill_. You ain’t the first soldier who’ve returned from war with a fucked up perception of human value. Hell, I even get your reasoning. The moment we decided we had to kill her, she was rendered a thing and lost all humanity in your eyes. It’s fucked up, but I get it. It’s a way to cope. You served what? Sixteen? Seventeen years? They sent you into situations that called for hand to hand combat, to weed out hostiles amongst civilians, to interrogate and break prisoners or whateverfuck. It’s a whole ‘nother ballgame than what I did as an engineer. They wanted you fucked up or you wouldn’t have held up.”

Nick makes a hesitant sound.

Dean goes on, since they obviously will have to talk about this before he’s allowed to sleep. Isobel had brown eyes. “Babe, it didn’t pass me by that you were the one to suggest we’d try to talk to her and buy her silence before anything else. You were on board with putting up the good cop bad cop act for her benefit, giving her a second chance. I haven’t lost my respect for you, if you think that. I still trust you as much as I ever did. I just happened to get a glimpse of what you’ve already told me was there.”

Nick snuggles closer and remains quiet.

“Look, Nicky. There’s a whole private sector for people requiring services I think you’d jump at the chance to provide. If that’s something you feel like doing from time to time. But I’m done with the need to know basis shit. I want my spot on the ruling counsel. Your moral compass is spinning all over the place so let me point out north for you, since you obviously make no difference between a kill and a kill. Is that something you’d want?”

Nick’s quiet.

“Dude, just man up and answer. Ain’t gonna judge. I want honesty. You know that.”

“Yes. That’s something that I’d want,” Nick finally admits. “But I don’t _need_ it.”

“Alright. We’ll look into it once this is all over.”

“Thank you.”

There’s a silence that follows and it’s still tense. Isobel had a little scar on her left cheek. It was old. Maybe she’d acquired it as a kid.

“Okay, what is it?” Dean asks impatiently.

“Just before you brought the knife down, and all the time after, your expression changed. You looked cold and hard in a way you never do.”

Dean swallows. “So?”

“I found it sexy as hell.”

A startled laugh breaks from Dean’s lips. That was _not_ where he thought Nick would be going with that. He grabs Nick’s cheeks and pulls him in for a kiss, smiling against Nick’s lips. “What? You think I’m gonna be pissed about that?”

“I did, but I can see now that I was wrong,” Nick grumbles, cheeks smushed by Dean’s hands.

“Dude. I pop a boner when I see you in a killin’ rage as long as it’s not directed at me. You honestly think I’d judge you for finding me hot when I go stone cold killer?”

“A foolish notion, apparently,” Nick says dryly and kisses Dean again.

Dean still doesn’t get to sleep after that, but now at least it’s because of a reason he can get behind.

* * *

“You seem to be in a lousy mood,” Dean observes where he’s sitting against the wall opposite the dungeon door, looking at his phone screen. As per usual, Nick’s sitting on a pillow, back leaned against the door.

Mike looks at his screen to meet Dean’s eyes. His phone lies on the control panel of the treadmill where he’s currently running. Dean’s actually impressed by his discipline. Even locked in he runs for one hour a day five days a week, works out six days, and rests one. He changes his clothes when he gets up, makes his bed, eats his meals, works a couple of hours with documents or computer files that Marlon brings him on an USB stick, (which upsets Nick, no matter how much Mike tries to convince him he _asked_ for it), and then he relaxes, reading a book or watching TV. Marlon brings him clean clothes and picks up the dirty laundry. He brings Mike new books and other necessities aside from stopping off in the mornings to give him the meals for the day.

“TV’s acting up,” Mike huffs while running. His hair is getting long, curling in slick locks from the sweat while he runs. “Picture keeps freezing up or getting random pixelation, so I can’t watch Netflix or HBO. Happens when I watch DVDs too, but those at least I can watch on the laptop.”

“Maybe Dean can help you? We'll get tools and he can guide you through fixing it,” Nick suggests. 

“Maybe,” Mike grumps noncommittally. Apparently, he's not very good at technology, having always paid people to take care of it. His face is red from exertion. “Dean, Luci told me you've been stalking your brother,” he says, changing the subject. 

Dean throws a reprimanding glare Nick’s way, getting only a blank stare back. “Um. It isn’t stalking. I've just popped up randomly to watch him for a while.”

Mike bursts out laughing, loses his pace and stops the treadmill. “That’s the very definition of stalking, soldier,” he says grinning at Dean’s image on his phone screen while leaning forward, bracing himself against the handrails, panting.

“Fuck off. I just want to see that they’re alright, alright? Jessy Bean is eight months pregnant now. She’s fucking _huge_. I got to see her belly once. She and Sam were in the yard drinking tea or somethin’ when the kid decided to practise karate chops inside her belly. She pulled up her shirt to let Sammy feel. They were grinning like madmen at each other. They seem happy. Like, for real. I don’t think Sammy’s fakin’ it. He’s been cutting down his hours to spend more time with her. I’m fuckin’ glad. Jess deserves that.”

“Any problems with the pregnancy?” Nick asks, expression and tone giving away exactly nothing as he looks at Dean.

“Not that I know of. Tell you the truth I’m antsy like hell about it. I’m scared shitless something’s gonna go wrong last minute. But then again, she’s far gone enough that the kid’s got a decent chance of survival even if they have to do an emergency extraction.”

Both Mike and Nick snigger. “Other people say cesarean, but okay,” Mike ribs. Dean sticks his tongue out at his screen and Nick chortles. 

“How do you feel about not being able to be there for your kid?” Nick asks, dragging the topic into a minefield.

“Sam’s kid,” Dean reminds him.

“That you fathered,” Nick points out.

“Dude. I’ve already told you I don’t give a shit. It’s Sam I’m mooning about.”

Nick shakes his head. “That was before. Now you’ve gotten yourself emotionally involved with the pregnancy. Feelings change.”

Feelings. Nick’s a sucker for talking about feelings. Apparently, so are all the brothers if you left them alone long enough. Dean had walked in on Gabe and Nick sitting cross-legged opposite each other in the bed, necks bent, wearing serious faces. He’d caught Gabe saying ‘...that hurt. I know she didn’t mean it, but I can’t…’ and just turned on his heel and left again. He was all for talking shit out, and yeah, that shit was probably healthy, but this was different. 

“Mine haven’t. End of discussion. Moving on,” Dean tries to cut the topic off.

“Nick told me you and Sam hadn’t really talked until you walked away. Maybe he’s changed his mind now that he’s heard you out and had time to think about it,” Mike says.

“ _Jeezus_. What’s wrong with you two? You hardly talk, but when I turn my back you apparently natter away like the worst of gossip yaks!”

“We just think that maybe you should give it one last chance. Talk to him.”

“Seriously? I ain’t got a heart of stone, assholes. I can’t face any more rejection from him. Enough’s enough already. Just fucking leave it.”

Nick hums noncommittally and Mike runs his tongue over his teeth under closed lips. Dean can fucking see how they’re refusing to drop it and trying to think of another angle. “You know what?” Dean asks rhetorically and gets up. He flips his phone around and hands it to Nick, feeling a vicious satisfaction at the flicker of panic in Nick’s eyes when he realises that Mike can see him. Dean turns and walks away.

“Where are you going?” Nick calls out. 

“Getting a screwdriver. We’re fixing the TV,” he lies.

When he comes back with the screwdriver Nick holds the phone pointed his way, once again having reversed the camera so he can see Mike on screen but Mike can’t see him. And _they’re_ the ones trying to give him lessons about talking to his brother. Pffhah! Laughable.

He goes down on his knees and shoves the screwdriver through the slot. “Here, jackass. Take it. You’ll keep the camera pointed at whatever you’re doing and I will instruct you,” he tells Mike.

Thirty minutes later he hears the words he’s been waiting for.

“Shit! It isn’t working, Dean. Now I can’t even turn the damn thing on!”

Dean’s face split in a shiteating grin. “Oops. Whatta shame. Guess you’ll just have to whine about it to your old man, huh?” he says lightly.

“You… you did it on purpose?” Mike asks disbelievingly.

“Of course I did, jackass. We broke a fucking circuit. You think you can actually fix something by breaking it further?”

“You sly dog,” Nick purrs quietly.

“Great! So now I have no TV at all. Thanks for that, asshole,” Mike complains testily.

“Marlon will get you a new one. I’m 110% sure. Just be your bitchy self about it when he comes down tonight. Your Papa will take care of it. Trust me.”

Marlon sees to all of Mike’s needs. They can’t find the fucking keycard, but Marlon can. He just needs a reason to bring it down here...

* * *


	88. The Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I can't wait any longer. I'm publishing this, but please note that the next chapter might be a while.

* * *

# The Rescue

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 10 months) Dean’s known Nick for 3 years, 1 month

Mike, of course, won’t try to escape on his own. He’d given Marlon his word and agreed to this nonsense. However, if he’s rescued by someone else that would count as ‘being stolen’ which to him is a loophole. There’s still the risk of Marlon giving Nick’s clothes to the police, but to counter that, Dean video tapes Marlon when he comes down to talk to Mike. It gives them an something to blackmail Marlon with. A sort of Mexican standoff. Either both Nick and Marlon end up in jail, or none of them do.

Mike whines about the broken TV, being a real pissbaby about it. Just as Dean thought, Marlon doesn’t even think twice about providing his son with a new one. But maybe the keycard isn’t as close by as they thought, because Marlon tells Mike he’d give him the new TV on Thursday, three days later.

It gave them the time they needed to set everything up. It makes Dean’s gut churn, because this scenario falls in the category ‘Extreme Measures’ and he can feel Nick closing off in cold slow-brewing anger the closer they get to the day. He’s practically radiating chill. There’s nothing to do but to trust him to keep his promise of restraint.

Dean wondered how Marlon planned to get a giant ass TV down in the basement without anyone noticing. Marlon simply had two servants carry it down in the cellar and put it in the first storage room. Just like that. Bold as brass. So, yeah. Marlon using the storage to store things wasn’t cause for alarm amongst the staff. Figures. It’s spending hours upon hours down there that Marlon keeps a secret.

The clock is ticking down for the nightly visit when Nick gets a phone call. “Gabe. Is everything clear?” he asks and puts the phone on speaker.

“Mavis is waiting by the airport with Hilda. The cars are parked where you asked them to be and the IDs and passports stashed in the glove compartments.”

“Good.”

“There’s a little problem, though,” Gabe says hesitantly.

“And what’s that?” Nick asks and shares a look with Dean.

“There was a bank heist an hour ago.”

“ _And?_ ” Nick needles impatiently.

“Roadblocks.”

“For the love of―! Couldn’t you have made that your lead in, you stupid fuck!?” 

“Sure, I could. But I didn’t. So whatever it is you’re planning to steal that you think will lead to finding Mikey, it would be a wise move to wait a few days.”

Nick looks at Dean. Technically, they could reschedule and wait a month before making Mike ask for something big again.

“How do you feel about riding in the trunk?” Dean asks Nick.

Nick gives him a flat stare. “Darling, it’s a long-standing dream of mine,” he says gravely. Gabe laughs, having heard Dean’s question. “It’s happening,” Nick clarifies to Gabe. “If the cops decide to search our trunk I’ll shoot their fucking heads off when they open it.”

“You always had a knack for dealing with authorities,” Gabe jokes. “Alright. I’ll alert Charlie. See if she can scramble the police radio or something if there’s a car chase.”

“Good. Anything else we need to know about?”

“The robbers weren’t wearing masks, so the cops will be looking specifically for them. But your ugly mug’s been on display on the news enough to draw attention either way. Just be careful.”

“Fuck,” Nick says after he hangs up. “We’re still going through with it?”

“Yup,” Dean confirms, playing up his confidence for Nick’s sake.

“Good. Get your gun.”

* * *

Dean’s heart is pounding a mile a minute. He sits hidden in an archway in a darkened part of the corridor beyond Mike’s door. Nick sits hidden on the other side of the T-section, ready to trap Marlon between them as soon as he’s turned this way in the corridor.

Dean hates how time always drags when you were waiting for something big to go down.

He pushes a button on his watch to make the screen light up. 23:56. Four minutes to midnight. Marlon should be down here any second now. 

_Please, don’t get hurt. Please, don’t get hurt._

_Fuck._

He wouldn’t say he has divided loyalties. There’s no question of whose side he’s on.

_As long as Marlon isn’t hurt **too** bad..._

00:12 they finally hear the door to the cellar open. They listen to scraping and shuffling sounds, then the creak of a cartwheel. The sound stops and half the corridor they’re in lights up. Dean’s still well hidden in darkness, but Nick stands well lit, leaned against the wall further away on the other side of the corridor Marlon is coming through. He looks bored and has his gun ready. The boredom is a mask, and for once he isn’t pale and drenched in sweat.

Marlon comes pushing a cart with the big TV on. He starts turning in the direction of the dungeon before he’s enough into the corridor to spot Nick, too focused on his task. Dean spots the fucking keycard in his hand. 

_Where the fuck was it?!_

Nick moves from his position to block Marlon’s escape route once he’s passed and started down Dean’s way. He raises his gun and says, “Hello, father.”

Marlon whirls around with a startled intake of breath, letting go of the cart. “Luci!”

The clanking of the cart and the TV sliding off is enough to hide Dean’s running steps. 

In ultrarapid he sees Luci aim his gun at Marlon’s head, 

sees the coldness in his eyes, 

sees the trigger finger slowly shift from the handle towards the trigger. 

Adrenaline rushes through Dean’s body, his heart thumpthumpthumps in panic.

He reaches Marlon just in time to raise his arm and hit him in the back of his head with the barrel of his own gun before Nick’s pulled the trigger.

Marlon collapses.

Dean tries not to wince at the thud when his head hits the carton TV box. “Dammit, Nicky! You’re not supposed to shoot him!” Dean exclaims, chest heaving.

Nick rolls his eyes and holsters his gun with a displeased twist to his lips. “Relax. I was only going to scare him a little,” he answers dismissively as he strides up to Dean and Marlon, then bends down to snatch up the dropped keycard.

Dean doesn’t believe him for a second.

Nick steps over Marlon and pushes himself past Dean. “Mike! The code!” Mike recites the code as Nick pushes the keycard in. Nick punches the digits given. The door beeps three times, the little lamp on the indicator blinking red before going back to its steady red shine. Nick yanks the keycard out, crouches down and shoves the card through the slot. “Mike, open the fucking door or I will blow dad’s brains out.”

Mike doesn’t dawdle. There’s a beep and then the red indicator on the outside turns green. Nick turns the wheel on the door and opens it with a yank. Or as much of a yank as a thick steel door allows for. 

Dean can’t see Mike yet behind the open door. He can just see the dark, _dark_ expression on Nick’s face as he stares into the dungeon and―presumably―at Mike. 

Dean crouches down to check Marlon’s pulse.

He’s got one.

But he also has a gash in the back of his head where Dean hit him. Dean cringes inwardly.

Suddenly Nick’s at his side, crouching down on the other side of Marlon, pats him down until he finds his phone, shuts it off and drops it on the floor carelessly. “Come on. Help me lift him. We’re locking him into that fucking dungeon of his. There’s food for a month. Let _him_ be the one to hope the lawyer does his job,” Nick orders in a voice that brooks no argument.

Another inward worry-filled cringe, and Dean helps Nick carry Marlon to the dungeon. He’s heavy as fuck. Tall, muscular, padded. It’s a bit awkward until they get a good grip. Mike backpedals out of the way.

“Jesus, he’s bleeding! How hard did you hit him?”

“He should be fucking killed, Mikey!” Nick nearly roars, making Mike flinch and scuttle two steps backwards.

“Are you _mad_? We can’t kill him!”

“Him or me, Mikey?” Nick demands coldly.

Mike swallows, expression torn.

“Nick. Bed. Focus,” Dean urges. His leg has begun to pound from the short sprint and he hasn’t taken any painkillers for… he’s not sure. Weeks? He’d just pushed through dull aches and jolts of pain. All he knows is that he’s not in the mood for standing still, holding up 198 pounds any longer than necessary while watching the brothers fight.

Nick grunts and continues into the room. They get Marlon to the bed and drop him on it.

“At least let me see to the wound before we go,” Mike pleads.

“You won’t fucking leave if I don’t, will you?” Nick growls.

“Of course I will, but it’s such a small thing to do. He’ll suffer enough anyway.”

“Where’s the first aid kit?”

“Bathroom.”

Nick grabs Mike by the arm and hauls him towards the bathroom. 

Dean looks around. He has nothing else to do, because it wouldn’t look good if he got caught fussing over Marlon’s head. He already worries about brain hemorrhage and concussion.

From inside the bathroom he can hear Nick and Mike having an argument in hushed voices but he can’t make out the words. His eyes catch on the painting Mike found so ugly. It ain’t half bad. Just an old man in a fishing boat at sea. He walks up to it and spots the name of the boat in small, sloppy brush strokes near the bow. ‘ _Marlin Bleu_ ’.

Suddenly his pulse is racing for another reason than before. He throws a glance at the bathroom door. He can still hear the brothers’ hushed argument. Quickly, he takes the painting off the wall. 

A safe.

_Sonnova bitch!_

He remembers the code Nick had translated out of the word ‘Salao’ using their placement in the alphabet. 19-1-12-1-15. He punches the code in and the lamp blinks green. He casts another nervous glance at the bathroom while he opens. Inside there’s a plastic bag. He takes it out and looks inside.

_Sonnova fucking bitch!_

He stuffs the bag inside his jacket and pulls up his zipper. On impulse, he takes out Marlon’s golden lighter out of his pocket and puts it in the safe instead, then closes the safe and lifts the painting to hang it back. He looks at its backside to see where the hanger is and does another find.

_Fuck sake, papa. That’s why you said you’d know if Mike had figured it out without him telling you. **Fuck**!_

There’s another keycard. 

Where the hell Marlon kept his, will most likely remain a mystery, but he’d left one in here to ensure Mike would have a way of getting out. He’d chosen a painting he probably knew Mike hated, and if Mike hadn’t been such an obedient little shit… had he been more like Dean he’d have gone sick and tired of the painting, taken it down and flipped it over just so he didn’t have to look at it.

Dean lets the keycard stay where it is and re-hangs the painting. He steps away from it and goes to Marlon snagging a towel from a chair as he goes, then presses it against the gash. It’s not as bad as he feared but Marlon remains dead to the world. He can feel sweat start to prick his neck and forehead. Nerves. “Y’all coming or what?”

The wound isn’t bleeding as hard as he thought. Thank fuck for small blessings.

Nick and Mike come out of the bathroom, Nick’s expression hard, Mike’s regretful. None of them are carrying a first aid kit.

“Come on, Dean. We’re leaving,” Nick orders.

“Y’ ain’t gonna patch him up?”

“No,” Nick states with finality. Mike shakes his head ruefully.

Dean lets go of the towel and follows them through the exit. Nick yanks the keycard out of its reader as he passes, then closes the door and turns the lock. He drops the card on top of the TV as they pass. Too far away from the slot for Marlon to be able to get a hold of it through the slot.

“I should have burned the lawyer’s fucking envelope,” Nick grits out hatefully.

Dean’s cold and clammy. If Nick ever finds out what he’d left in the dungeon…

He tries not to think about it.

* * *

Nick drives the first stretch. The tense silence in the car is so heavy Dean thinks he’ll choke from it. Mike sits cowering in the back and stares out into the darkness while Nick keeps throwing cold looks at him through the rearview mirror. Nobody speaks.

Mike’s cowering posture and silence don't last longer than their second car change. The car they’re driving now is registered to a Marvin Daly. There are an ID and passport in the glove compartment with Mike’s pictures on it. Mike’s currently driving, looking fairly self-satisfied now Nick’s in the trunk.

“Watch the pothole,” Dean warns.

Mike turns the car and drives over the pothole. There’s a clunk from the trunk when they hit it, and then three bangs and a muffled “ _Watch how you drive, jackass!_ ”

Mike smirks and casts a glance at Dean. “Thanks for the warning, soldier.”

Dean chuckles.

“Oh, look! Another one,” Mike says and swerves the steering wheel just enough to guarantee that he hits it. 

The car bumps, there’s another bang from the trunk and “ _The fuck, Mikey! Watch how you’re driving!_ ”

Dean hides his mouth behind his hand not to laugh out loud. Mike grins a shiteating grin.

“If we take a left up ahead there’s a street with a lot of speed bumps. It’s a little longer, but we still got time, right?” Mike says.

Dean looks at his watch. “Yup. We’re good. Go ahead.”

He sees the turn coming up. Mike switches on the blinkers but doesn’t turn until it’s almost too late, causing the back of the car to spin jerkily. “Oops. Almost missed it,” Mike says innocently as Nick bangs on the trunk wall again.

Dean giggles. “Fuck me, but you’re such shits to each other.”

“He should have let me clean father’s wounds,” Mike says and drives over a speed bump fast enough to make the car do a little jump.

“You worried he’ll die from the head trauma?”

“No.” Mike throws another look his way. “Luci’s going to kill him, Dean.”

“You want him dead?”

They drive over another speed bump, eliciting another set of curses from the trunk. “No. Can’t say that I do. But you heard Luci. It’s him or dad. The choice isn’t a choice.”

“There’s always a choice. We’ll find a way to fix this.”

Mike lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Free will is an illusion, Dean.”

“Gee, baby, you’re sure good at boosting morale,” Dean says dryly.

“What can I say? We don’t _all_ have crappy dad jokes stored up.”

Dean sniggers. They come out on the final stretch of the road. Now there are only the police roadblocks left to brave, then the flight to safety in France.

* * *

There’s a queue. This time of the night. If Gabe hadn’t warned them, that in itself would have been a sign that there was a blockage of some kind up ahead. Dean calls Nick. It’s easier than shouting to make himself heard. Nick picks up. “Hey, babe. Roadblock up ahead. We just reached the tailback. Keep your gun ready.”

“He did it on purpose, didn’t he?” Nick answers tightly.

“Nah. The roads are shit,” Dean lies and winks at Mike who sniggers silently in response.

“Fucking liar. I know that he did it on purpose.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just keep quiet. And if the trunk is opened before I call, pull the fucking trigger.”

“Got it.”

“Oh, and Nick?”

“Yes?”

“I just farted in my wallet.”

“What?” Nick asks confusedly.

“...Now I have gas money.”

“ _No_! Fuck sake! That was bad even for you!” 

Dean giggles and hangs up. It’s started to rain. Small, irregular drops dot the windshield, reflecting the red brake light from the car in front of them. He’s nervous. The plastic bag he took from the safe in the dungeon burns inside his jacket. “If they ask us to step out of the car to pat us down, you step on the gas, you hear?”

“I know, soldier. Can’t risk them searching the car.”

_Yeah._ That’s _the reason._

“Gabe thinks we went to steal something that might have led to finding you. He doesn’t know anything about Marlon being personally involved. I thought it best to keep it on the down-low until the three of us have been able to sit down and talk it all through.”

“Good call.”

The car creeps forward slowly and Dean’s nerves keep racking up. Without thinking much of it, he reaches out and lays his hand on Mike’s thigh to calm himself down. “I miss Cayenne,” he offers to keep himself from reaching too high levels of stress.

“Who’s she?”

“Your car, dickwad. Was it you or Marlon who reported her as stolen?”

“Dad. In my mind, the car’s been yours since the day I offered to sign it over. I should have done it, even if you said no,” Mike berates himself and covers Dean’s hand with his own.

“I couldn’t say yes, knowing I was about to get you back for breaking my heart. You don’t go around taking expensive gifts from people who don’t know the relationship is over. But damn, I wanted that car.”

“I knew. I’m not that dumb, Dean. I tried, but I felt you slipping away… it was like trying to hold onto mist. After that fight in the bathroom, you changed. Even when it was good. You could look at me like you always did, then suddenly your gaze shifted, and you’d look at me like I wasn’t enough.”

“Like _you_ weren’t enough? Oh, yeah, that’s a hoot. You’d been lying about fucking everything. I couldn’t trust a word that came out of your mouth anymore. And you know what the funny thing is? Despite that, it never ever occurred to me that you could be cheating. I just thought you upheld the act of the adoring boyfriend to keep me as your fucktoy. But cheating?” Dean shakes his head and stares ahead.

“Dean. It wasn’t cheating. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Man, you and your brother are equally fucked up. _He_ said it wasn’t cheating if he killed her afterwards, and you say it isn’t cheating if somebody told you to do it. Newsflash. You’re both wrong. And you _did_ have a choice.”

“I couldn’t risk father―”

“Hold it right there. You use the word father like a title. Like he’s a General or something. You all treat him as such. Most kids grow up and realise their parents are fallible and human. But y’all scuttle and hide from him like he’s a god. You’re nearly forty, Michael, and you still think that if ‘father’ said it, it must be so. But hell, even thinking about him as a General, you fucked up. He gave you a choice between A and B and you picked one. Fine. I get that. I don’t think you did right, but I get it. But when you met me and decided you wanted to keep me around, you shoulda gone to him and told him he needed to redraw his battle plans and come up with option C for ya. But because you think of him as some sort of god you didn’t. You withheld real fucking important intel from your General. That’s like pointing out a stretch on a map for the General and tell him the target is at the end of it, but not telling him there’s a vast assembly of enemy troops or a fucking bog or something in between.” Dean turns his head to look at Mike with a serious face. He flips his hand over to lace their fingers together. “You must really think your old man hates you, huh?”

Mike gives him a puzzled look under a troubled frown. The car crawls forward. “No. Why would you think that?”

“You don’t think Marlon knows he broke your heart when he split you and Luci up? If you loved me as much as you said that you did, taking me away from you woulda been breaking your heart all over again. You either think he’s the worst kind of sadistic swine, or you believe him completely unable to adapt to new circumstances. And if that’s so, I’ll tell you, it’s impossible to keep Marlon’s position for so long if you can’t adapt. He wouldn’t have forced you into a marriage with someone else if he’d known about me.”

Michael’s expression is both regretful and brooding. He runs his tongue over his teeth under closed lips.

“You did, right? I know I was just a stand in for Nick, but you still loved me, right?” Dean asks, feeling vulnerable.

“Jesus, is that what you think?” Mike turns his head to look at him with a pained expression and squeezes his hand. “I’m so sorry, Dean. You weren’t a stand in. You and Luci have a lot of similar traits but they’re mostly superficial, like smoking, swearing, drinking, and dog tags. Apart from that, you’re very different as individuals. I fell in love with _you_. I've never felt like I feel about you, for anyone but Luci. It’s… it’s true that he is, and I think always will be my number one priority. But you’re a close second.” He takes their joint hands and tugs Dean closer so he can press Dean’s hand over his heart. “You feel that? The way my heart’s racing? It's because you're holding my hand.”

Dean’s belly flutters, suddenly full of inconvenient butterflies. “Yeah, having a wanted criminal in the trunk while sneaking past a police roadblock has nothing to do with it,” he jokes with a lopsided smirk to hide how his own heart skips. Mike chuckles, shakes his head and lowers their hands to his thigh again. “Seriously, though,” Dean says. “Would it have made a difference if I'd said it? If I'd managed to get past my crippling fear of rejection and told you how fucking in love with you I was?”

Mike’s quiet for a while, then shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry, I don’t think it would. Not with the threat of Luci’s imprisonment hanging over my head.” He lifts their hands and places a kiss on Dean’s knuckles. “I’m really sorry, Dean. All of this is my fault. I started all of this.” Up ahead the roadblock is coming into view. Cops have blocked both lanes going onto the bridge, inspecting the cars one by one. Checking papers and shining their flashlights into the cars. In the other lane, one driver is made to get out. Dean’s starting to get nervous again. If they’re caught now…

“Dude. Nick wasn’t exactly an unwilling participant to your bump and grind.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean Buckner. I encouraged Luci. I _told_ him to do it.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I was angry, hurt, and a little afraid of Buckner. So after I’d vented to Luci I said that Buckner didn’t deserve what he had, that he didn’t deserve to live. Luci asked if I was sure. I said yes and Luci left, telling me to wait up. I could have stopped it. If I hadn’t said yes, dad wouldn’t have any bloody clothes to prove Luci’s guilt for a murder I set him up to. I didn’t _know_ he was going to kill the guy. But I understood that Buckner would be beaten to a pulp.”

In front of them, another car is allowed to pass and they get a little closer to their turn. Dean takes out his wallet, ready to show his ID. Today he's Jake Abel. He hopes Mike’s tongue won't slip on his name. “Fuck. He musta looked so hot coming straight from the hunt. All stirred up and excited. Eyes full of hunger and nostrils flared. Aura taking up the room, humming with power.”

Mike side-eyes him, cheeks colouring. “I, uh. I wouldn’t know about that…”

“Hah! I call bull. Nick told me you hadn’t passed that limit yet back then, but there’s no way in hell you can make me believe you didn’t feel it. He said that the way you were looking at him, you looked like he felt. And I know what he feels after letting loose, Mike.” Dean grins and winks at him. “You might not have believed you were feeling it, but look back now and try to convince me you didn’t want some boom-chicka-bow-wow with him at the time.”

“Oh, God, Dean. Won’t you just stop?” Mike flusters. “It’s like we’re puppies that pissed on the floor and you’re determined to rub our noses in.”

“No, that would be your dad. I’m laying out a potty pad for y’all,” Dean sniggers. He lets go of Mike’s hand and retracts it with a little pat on Mike’s lap. It’s almost their turn to be inspected and the last thing they need is to provoke, should the cop turn out to be a raging homophobe. “It might be a bit fucked up, but y’all are adults. Ain’t nobody being forced. And as a gay guy, I can’t exactly judge considering my love is outlawed and hated upon too by a lot of people.”

“It isn’t the same and it’s not something I want to discuss.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well. He’s kinda rough and primal in bed. Maybe you wouldn’t be able to handle it anyway,” he tells Mike offhandedly. “On the other hand, he also gets in the mood for prolonged teasing just like you. Bet ya coulda done something of that. Drawn it out for fucking hours, driving each other mad… he’d mark you up as his. He’s a possessive bastard. He’d dig in his teeth and fingers, suck hickeys. Anything to let the world know you were fucking his…”

Mike’s eyes had been getting wider, cheeks redder, as he stared ahead. Now he suddenly giggles. “Shit. I see what you’re doing. You’re trying to distract me from being nervous.”

Dean gives him a shiteating grin. “Is it working?”

“I guess. Hand me the papers, will you?”

Dean opens the glove compartment and takes out Mike’s licence and registration. He leaves it open so it'll be easy for the cops to see that it's empty save for a pack of gum and napkins. He hands the papers over.

The car in front of them is released and they roll forward to be stopped. Mike rolls their window down while a policeman shines a flashlight into the car, first in the back, then in the front. Dean’s pulse racks up.

“License and registration, please. And ID for your passenger.”

“Here you go, officer,” Mike obliges, handing over their fake papers. Dean really hopes they’re as well crafted as Gabe says they are.

The officer looks tired and wet. Rain smatter on his cap while he inspects the papers. He frowns, looks up from the papers and shines the flashlight right in Mike’s face. “I know you from somewhere…”

_ShitShitShit!_

Mike breaks into a huge grin and slaps Dean on the arm. “Hah! You hear that, Jake? He recognises me! Told you people watch the commercials.” Mike beams at the officer. “That’s right. I’m the face of JD Morgan Car Insurance. You’ve seen my spot on TV, right?”

Dean groans and rubs his temples like he’s tired of whatever Mike’s doing. 

“‘Have you been in a car accident? Can’t get a decent insurance because of past misfortunes? Call JD Mo...’” Mike launches into a commercial speech that Dean’s pretty sure is ripped off from another insurance commercial, so he cuts Mike off.

“Enough. Nobody _cares_. Commercials make people go to fetch a snack or go potty. You’ve probably just served him at the restaurant or something.”

Mike turns his head to scowl at him. “You think people recognise their waiter? Pfft. He saw my commercial, Jake. I was great and some people can see that.” He turns back to look up at the officer. “I was great, right? Tell him I was good, would you? I was, right?” he asks hopefully.

The officer wears a ‘ _Why me?_ ’ or ‘ _I could have been home sleeping by now, but no,_ ’ type of expression. “You were good. Fine acting,” he agrees half-heartedly, probably disliking seeing the discouraging attitude Dean’s giving Mike. Mike shines like a fucking beacon of pride. “So what are you fellas doing out this time a night?”

“We dropped a drunken friend off at his place,” Mike offers.

“That takes two people?”

“I drove his car,” Dean explains. “Ain’t no way in hell I’m gonna let a man too drunk to put his jacket on by himself, get behind the wheel.”

“Have you been drinking too?”

“No, Sir.”

The cop once more shines his flashlight on their faces trying to determine their sobriety level, then he hands their papers back. “Alright, gentlemen. You can go. Drive safely,” he says and gestures at the cop manning the barrier across the lane to raise the bar.

“Thank you, officer.”

Mike rolls up the window and drives. There’s no traffic on the bridge, but at the other end of it, they see cop cars waiting at the sides, ready to block the road should anyone make a break for it.

Dean feels a bit like jelly from the relief. “So, while we’re on serious topics, Mike. Let’s get to the most important of them all.”

Mike casts a guarded look his way. “And what’s that?”

“How often did you jerk off while you were locked up?” Dean jokes impishly to unwind the tension.

Mike rolls his eyes. “Oh my God, _Dean_. You’re incorrigible.” He shakes his head, but at least he’s smiling.

* * *

They park behind a copse of trees and Dean lets Nick out. As soon as he’s out Dean tugs him close in an embrace and doesn’t let go. “You did good. I’m so fucking proud of you, you hear? Man, you’re one gutsy fucker. Thank you for trusting me so much, babe,” he mumbles into Nick’s cold, sweat-slicked neck.

Nick’s tense at first, like he’s about to protest and shove Dean off. Then he melts into the embrace and clings, letting out a shuddering breath.

With everything going on, Dean had for a moment forgotten that the reason Nick’s afraid of the dungeon, is claustrophobia. He didn’t remember it until they were well past the roadblock and Nick was still stuffed in the fucking trunk.

Dean holds onto Nick for several minutes before letting go and giving him a couple of affectionate, chaste kisses of comfort, uncaring of the falling night rain. All while Mike stands awkwardly to the side, waiting.

* * *


	89. Snakes On A Plane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got totally lost in looking at private jet designs before writing this chapter. The description I give isn't very detailed, so go ahead and [pick and choose yourself, from the many options](https://www.google.se/search?q=private+jet+interior&safe=off&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiu45Xs8dTSAhUMFiwKHZMqBNsQ_AUIBigB&biw=1910&bih=970). ^^

* * *

# Snakes On A Plane

(Dean’s known Michael for 3 years, 10 months) Dean’s known Nick for 3 years, 1 month

Who would have thought there’d come a day he’d fly in a private jet. He feels like Donald Trump or some other douchebag. Not that Cas is a douchebag, but he kinda is for owning this monster. It’s like some futuristic space apartment with an added conference room inside. Bedroom, lounge bar, office, and what would count as a living room. If this hadn’t been a giant metal death trap a bazillion miles up in the air, this would make for a pretty neat apartment. He tells his companions so.

Nick sniggers without turning his head from where his nose is pressed against the window and eyes watching the clouds below them.

Mike rolls his eyes. “That’s a bit dramatic, Dean. Flying is perfectly safe. Otherwise I agree. It is fit to live in, which is the point. At times we have to fly to meetings and negotiations in many different countries under a very tight schedule, and then we'll borrow this plane from Cas rather than booking hotels and flights, wasting a lot of time that could be spent more wisely.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Dean drums his fingers against the table between them. Every piece of furniture is bolted down and comfortable. Mavis had been given a final walk before they took off, then a mild sedative to let him sleep through the eleven-hour flight. Dean wishes he too could have gotten something that let him sleep through it all. Especially since the brothers had chosen seats beside each other despite keeping up their tense interactions. So he's left sitting opposite them with no one to cop a feel of, to distract himself. 

Michael leans forward takes his hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. Nick’s eyes flick in their direction. He doesn’t say anything. Instead he pushes his leg out under the table so his calf rests against Dean’s before looking out at the clouds again. Dean has no idea if that makes it alright for him to hold hands with Mike or not, but fuck it. It’s comforting. His fear of flying is nowhere near as crippling as it once had been, but the anxiety is always there. Isobel had a birthmark on her earlobe, but no holes for earrings.

_Dammit!_

He didn’t relive her death every night, but often enough. The look on her face when he stabbed her is burned into his retinas and will pop up at any given moment and be gone again the next. It always makes him nauseous.

Getting nauseous while on a fucking airplane is even worse. Lucky for him private jets don’t have 'no smoking' signs. 

_If Cas has complaints, he can go to hell._

Dean lets go of Mike’s hand, digs his cigarettes out of a pant pocket and pats himself down in search for a lighter. Then he remembers. 

_Fuck._

He'd left the lighter in the safe. And for what? A secret message of ‘Look, papa, I solved the riddle. Aren't you proud of me?’. Stupid is what it was. “Oy, Nicky. You got a light? I lost mine.”

Nick's head snaps around to scowl at him. “You _lost_ dad’s lighter?”

“I stole it so it was my lighter. Chill. You got a light or not?”

“No. You can’t even keep track of dad’s lighter so why should I give you mine? Fuck off.” Nick goes back to staring out of the window demonstratively. 

Dean snorts and Mike hides a smile behind his hand. Dean puts the cigarette behind his ear, unclasps the safety belt (If there’s a belt on a seat in a plane, unlike the others he’s gonna wear it, okay?) and gets up. He makes his way to the bedroom in the back of the plane, bends down to look in on Mavis in his crate that’s been firmly attached to the wall. Mavis―the lucky bugger―is fucking snoring, happily oblivious about their cloudy peril. Dean’s glad and jealous at the same time. All their luggage (that had been pre-delivered by Chuck) is behind the door beside the bed. Dean goes there and takes out one of his bags.

Fleetingly he thinks about Nick trusting him enough to go down in underground tunnels and riding in a car trunk. He wonders how many days in jail Nick would be able to take if Dean told him he’d break him out? Probably longer than Nick himself would estimate.

He takes a bic lighter from the side pocket of his bag and lights his cigarette, then pockets the lighter in his pants. When they boarded the plane, the first thing they did was to have a change of clothes. Nick even had a quick wash before takeoff. Dean took the opportunity to stash his bounty from the dungeon safe in the bottom of his bag. Now he can’t help himself from opening the bag and taking it out. He opens the bag and takes out the ziplock bag inside, then sits on the bed with it in his lap, sucking on his cigarette. A pair of jeans, an Iron Maiden tee, and a casual button down shirt. All covered with so many faded, dark brown stains and smudges that a prosecutor would coo in delight. Upon closer inspection Dean can even see some of Nick’s hairs on the clothes.

_Marlon would have gone down for accessory if he turned this in any other way than anonymously. He’s been covering up the murder for too many years._

_Yeah, but if we nail him for kidnapping he’d be risking spending the rest of his life in prison anyway, and he’d still have the rest of the family to protect. Mike would gain pity points for being held hostage, and the rest of the siblings would be looked upon weirdly at most, if Marlon went down for his crime. But Mike and Nick getting busted with an incestuous relationship would affect all the siblings’ social standing. Marlon would rather choose to separate Mike and Nick to prevent that from happening, extra jail time be damned._

_He was still willing to let them be together if I could guarantee that they kept it on the DL. I don’t know why he thinks that I would be able to do that, but whatever._

_So why doesn’t he trust Nick to be smart about it on his own?_

_Yeah, okay. So Nick can rationalise in fucked up ways. Just look at what he did to Isobel. He didn’t look ashamed until I told him off._

_But he acts ashamed about what he and Mike did…?_

_Of course. Because it brought rejection from the one person he loved more than anything. He wouldn’t have been ashamed if Mike had encouraged it afterwards. And if they got together for real, and Marlon told them to tone it down? Yeah, no. I get it. I get how Marlon reasons on this._

Dean puts the ziplock bag back in the other plastic bag and once again hides it in the bottom of his bag, then puts the bag back with the rest of the luggage. Fuck, he’s glad they didn’t get caught red handed with Nick in the trunk and the evidence inside Dean’s jacket.

The real question is why he hasn’t told them he has the clothes yet.

When he found the safe he hadn’t thought at all, but he could come up with a good reason fairly quickly once they were in the car on their way to the airport. If Nick had known they had the bloody clothes he probably would have shot Marlon on the spot, not thinking ahead. Not thinking about what evidence they would leave. Even if they’d hidden Marlon in an underground cave along with the bloody sheets there was no way in hell they’d have time to clean up all the traces of their presence, Mike’s included. It’d take a maximum of two weeks before the lawyer found the dungeon after Marlon went missing. Police would show up on the spot. It wouldn’t take long for a dog to find the entrance to the sub levels and they’d be seven times as screwed as before. All of them.

So that was easy.

But why hadn’t he told them he had the clothes now that there was no risk of an impulsive murder that would doom them all?

Nick would get pissy when he heard, but he’d cool down as soon as he heard Dean’s reasoning, Dean’s sure.

Dean leaves the bedroom and goes to the bar. The flight attendants (that's right. There are two flight attendants on this flight. Just for the sake of serving three men and their sleeping dog.) sit in a chair each and chatter. They look up when Dean doesn’t just pass by like he did on the way to the bedroom. “Can I be of service, Mr.Williams?” one of them asks with a smile. 

“Um. Yeah. I need an ashtray, snacks, and what brands of cognac do you have?”

* * *

He comes back ten minutes later and puts the ashtray down on the table. “Hey, babe?”

“Yes?”  
“Yes?”

Dean looks up in surprise when both answer in unison. Mike and Nick give each other awkward, confused looks before looking at Dean for him to clarify who he'd been talking to. “Um... Painkillers? My leg hurts like hell,” Dean falters uncertainly.

Mike looks ruefully at his lap and Nick’s expression turns smug. “Why, of course, darling,” he purrs and reaches into his pocket without taking his eyes off Mike.

_This is going to be a long flight,_ Dean thinks and sits down. Nick hands him a blister strip and he pushes two pills out to dry swallow, rather than waiting for the stewardess to bring the refreshments he asked for. The flight was roughly eleven hours from start to finish, and they’ve been in the air for barely two. He hands the blister strip back to Nick, who takes two pills of his own, then―(Dean shouldn’t be surprised, but he is)―holds it out towards Mike. Mike takes it, moves as if to push a pill out himself, halts and looks uncertainly at Dean. Nick turns his head to stare at Dean with a blank face and heavy eyelids, meaning he’s doing his best to hide whatever he’s thinking at the moment.

Nobody moves and Dean blinks in puzzlement at the two. Then he scowls. “What am I? Some kind of supreme court justice? Take the fucking pill, Mike. Chill.”

Mike relaxes and Nick’s lips curve into something small and satisfied. Mike takes a pill and hands the strip back.

One of the flight attendants comes in with a cart with the things Dean asked for. “Here you go, Sirs,” she says and puts the snacks, three bottles of water, three tumblers and the bottle of Cognac on the table. “Can I get you anything else?”

The brothers shake their heads. 

“Thanks, Melissa,” Dean offers with a flirty smile.

“My pleasure, Dean,” the stewardess answers with a wink and a saucy smile before she leaves.

“Had it been anyone else but you or Cas, I would have said it took you so long to get back because you renewed your membership in the mile high club,” Nick ribs with amusement and reaches for the cognac.

“Oy. Couldn’t I just have closed my eyes and pretended she’s a twink or somethin’? None of y’all have offered to handle the renewal, after all. At this rate I’m gonna be stuck having to rub one out all by myself,” Dean jokes while Nick pours them a drink each.

Under the table a foot strokes his, making a silent offer. Dean leans back in his chair long enough to throw a glance downward, finding that it’s Mike toe flirting with him.

_Oh boy. This is going to be a long, complicated, and awkward flight, isn’t it?_

Nick sniggers then lifts his glass to look at the liquid within. “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t drink with Mavis around?” he asks curiously.

“Yeah, well. He’s out cold and we just made a successful heist. Figured we are allowed to celebrate. Told Melissa and Akari that they shouldn’t allow us into the bedroom once we get drunk. We’ll have people meeting us at the airport and Mavis safety and comfort is our number one priority. If we get too drunk to get that, we shouldn’t be allowed near our dog, and if they stop us and we tell them they're fired, they’re _not_.”

“Fair enough. I’m not complaining.” Nick raises his glass and looks at his companions. “To liberty, and to us,” he toasts.

“To us,” Dean and Mike echoes before they drink.

Dean had chosen a cognac brand he didn’t recognise, in hope of it being the kind Marlon kept in carafes. It’s not. He’s a tad bit disappointed. It’s still good though. Smooth in his throat and burning in his gut.

Once they’ve put their glasses down Dean goes for a bottle of water, Nick throws his pack of cigarettes on the table, Mike takes the pack, taps out a cigarette and the lighter inside, lights the cigarette and hands it over to Nick. Dean raises a bemused eyebrow at them but none of them offers an explanation. Dean downs half the water bottle and looks away. He wonders if Marlon’s alright and feels like a traitor. 

He puts his hand on the table in the middle of the two brothers without looking at them. After a moment somebody takes his hand. When he looks, it’s Mike holding it while Nick looks on with an amused smirk and heavy eyelids. Then he turns his head to look out on the clouds again. Dean can’t get a grip on what’s going on. The atmosphere’s been weirdly tense since the moment they were all together and settled on the plane. Dean doesn’t know how to diffuse it. Nor does he know how to act. It’s made fifty times weirder by the fact that he’s dated them both at the same time, and that he hasn’t yet developed a platonic behaviour pattern with Mike. He’s not sure how familiar he’s allowed to be. When there was a door between them Nick _wanted_ him to hold Mike’s hand and be a physical comfort. Now? Now he thinks he’s just a prop in some elaborate mind game between the two of them. They keep throwing surreptitious glances at each other when they think the other isn’t looking. They move around each other with the same ease as if they’d been partners for ages (which they have), expecting the other to be or do exactly where they are or do, without even looking. Like the lighting of the cigarette, then they’ll seem to remember Dean and look to _him_ for guidance, like with the painkillers. When they talk to each other they’re as likely to be pissy, as competitive, as cordial. Dean’s completely out of his depth.

“This is a long ass flight. Maybe we should watch a movie or something?” Dean suggests when he can’t bear the silence anymore.

“What do you want to watch?” Mike asks. Under the table he toes off his shoes and strokes Dean’s leg upward with the backside of his foot.

“I dunno. Some action movie? Comedy? You’re the one who’s been Netflixing for half a year. You’ve probably seen everything by now.”

“How about Air Crash Investigation?” Nick suggests with a mean snigger without turning his head away from the window.

“Fuck you,” Dean snipes. Under the table Mike’s foot has reached the inside of Dean’s thigh. Dean’s heart starts thumpthumpthumping harder, cheeks feeling hot.

_The hell are you doing, Mike?_

“That’s a series, not a movie, asshole,” Mike reprimands Nick. Mike’s socked foot reaches Dean’s crotch, sole pressing down on his dick pleasantly. Dean’s getting hard.

He doesn’t want to voice a protest in case Nick would turn violent towards Mike. His heated glare falls flat, since Mike’s looking at his brother, not at Dean. He should shove Mike off of him. Instead he spreads his legs wider and leans his elbows on the table, covering up what's happening. 

_The hell am **I** doing? _

Nick twists around to almost face Mike, takes a sip of his Cognac, sucks a breath of smoke, and smirks a mean, teasing smirk. “Okay. How about Snakes on a plane?”

“No. Luci, don’t.”

“No? Anacondas? Venomous? Silent Predators?” Nick muses playfully. 

“I swear to God, Luci, if you don’t stop…” Mike threatens. He hasn't stopped massaging Dean’s erection, and Dean rolls his hips discreetly. He imagines the brothers doing this in their late teens, Mike sitting opposite Luci at the dinner table, giving him a footjob right under the noses of the rest of the family, sniping each other over the table.

“Aw. Already seen those, have you?” Nick mocks innocently. Dean hadn’t even known Mike’s afraid of snakes, but judging by his reaction to these suggestions he is. “Then maybe Python?”

“The only python I will watch is _Monty_ Python and you know it.”

“Copperhead?” Luci purrs. “Snake Island? Snakes on a train?” 

“ _Luci_ ,” Mike warns and removes his foot from Dean’s dick. Finally. (Disappointingly.)

“Hisss? Fair Game? How about Vipers? It has Tara Reid in it. She always looks fuckable,” Nick persists.

Mike’s hand darts out to pinch him by the ribs.

“ _Ouch!_ You asshole,” Nick sputters and tries to retaliate. Mike slaps his hand away and pinches him one more time. Nick drops his cigarette carelessly in the ashtray and launches himself at him, capturing him in a headlock and gives him a noogie. Dean picks up the still burning cigarette from the ashtray and takes a drag on it while he watches Mike get out of the hold by tickling Nick under his armpits. Nick squirms and giggles. Dean blows three smoke rings and moves all glasses to his side of the table. The way arms are flying haphazardly it would be a matter of time before a glass gets smashed.

He watches the back and forth struggle with a bemused smile and pushes the heel of a hand against his dick. His emotions are mixed, confused. There’s jealousy. Not black and toxic like when Nick hit on guys, but sad and simmering. He wishes he could have had this with Sam. There were times when they were kids when it was like this. Stupid play fighting, ribbing, and just moments of companionable lull. When dad was on a bender and stayed away so it was just them, Sam would drop his hatefulness and be a brother. Maybe that was the reason he kept having the dreams of him and Sam roadtripping in the Impala, meaning the world to each other.

That’s where the jealousy comes from for the most part. Not from the fact that Mike and Nick most likely want to bone each other again.

_Fuck, that’d be hot._

_They’re both tops. I wonder who’d be topping?_

_Nick. Definitely Nick._

_Or maybe I just think that because I want to see Mike fucked into the mattress as a punishment for being such an asshole?_

The problem with these fantasies is that he can’t see a place where he himself fits in. Nick and Mike love for each other is out of this world. If he’s learned anything from living at the estate, talking to all the brothers plus Marlon, and seeing Nick’s sometimes weird behaviour when it comes to Mike, it's that he can't compete. 

Dean downs his drink and grabs one of the other glasses instead of pouring himself a new one.

They’re ridiculous. Tickling, pinching, slapping each other. Alternating between hard insults and giggles. This is standard fucking foreplay to Dean. How many times had playfighting _not_ resulted in Nick pinning him down and mounting him in a show of possessive dominance? Not many.

Dean puts the cigarette out and massages his erection outside of his pants. Mike’s a dick. The fuck would he go on a footsie groping spree for? Now Dean’s horny and perturbed. 

Nick gets out of his chair to have better reach. Mike lifts his legs and spins, lays his back against the armrest and tries to push Nick off with his legs and arms. Nick twists his hip to push himself between Mike’s legs, captures Mike’s hands and presses them down on Mike’s belly then shifts his grip to hold Mike’s wrists with only one hand and leans down on him to keep him down. Mike squirms and arches his back futilely trying to buck Nick off while Nick punches his side repeatedly with his free hand. They’re light punches that probably barely hurt and most likely won’t even leave bruises. Nick’s got his lips pinched determinedly, Mike’s laughing and they’re both red-faced from exertion.

“Stop. Luci, please. Let me go,” Mike gasps between laughter. Nick draws back his hand as to give him a light backhand. “Not the face!” Mike protests rushedly.

Nick halts his movement and presses himself down further, trapping his arm between their throats. Their faces are almost touching and Nick pulls his lips back, showing teeth. “Or what? Dad’s not here to save you, bitch. You’re fucking _mine_ ,” he snarls.

“ _Yes_. Perfect. Now, _kiss_ ,” Dean urges on.

Both brothers’ eyes go comically round. They turn their heads to see Dean sitting leaned back, rubbing his dick through his clothes.

“No, no, no. Don’t stop now,” Dean protests. “Not when it’s finally getting interesting.”

“For the love of―! _Dean_. We’re not―!”

“Oh, come on. Mike’s got the same sex drive as us and he’s been locked up in a fucking vault for seven months. And here we are. You’re the one who taught him what want is, and I’m the one that turned him gayer than the rainbow flag in the timespan of a shirt change. He’s gagging for it. And there you are. Pressed up between his legs, pinning him down like the bossy fucker you can be, a hot line against his pining body. You’ve done it once, but let’s face it, once is never enough. You admitted it yourself, you’d do it again if only he _wanted_ it. And he wants it. Trust me.” Dean unbuttons his pants while he talks, removing the uncomfortable pressure of the buttons digging in.

“Dean, _please_ ,” Mike whines. They both look like deer in the headlight. Blushing. Oh yeah. Nick’s not a blusher, but when it comes to Mike he’ll blush as prettily as he’s ever done for Dean.

Dean pulls his dick out with one hand, snaps his fingers with his other and points at Mike while looking at Nick. “See? _That’s_ what I was going for. That’s how he’d beg for ya. You don’t know if he wants you to stop or go. And you _like_ that. Especially now, when you’ve got so many mixed emotions about him. It’s really doin’ a number on ya.” Dean smears his precome over the top of his dick and huffs in amusement. “Ya’ll know I’ve had both of y’all’s come inside of me at the same time?” he asks and strokes himself languidly meeting Mike’s eyes. “He’d come as soon as you left and fuck me raw. I used to think it was only a possessive thing, since if we’d done it right before you left he wouldn’t even bother with hello. He’d throw me over the back of the couch and fucking mount me on the spot. There wasn’t even a need for lube cuz you’d be leaking out of me. He’d lick and bite at my shoulder, lay as flat as he could over my back, until he was as soaked in your scent as I was. Looking back, I think possessiveness was only half of it, jealousy was the other.”

Mike makes a breathy noise, closes his eyes and turns his head away. Dean doesn’t miss how his hips discreetly press upward. “ _Dean_ ,” Nick warns.

Oh, yeah, he’s hard. Dean doesn’t have to see it to understand that both brothers have popped tabooed boners. It’s in their body language. They’re both so fucking ashamed of it, cheeks burning red from the forbidden arousal. Nick’s eyes are feverish, pupils blown. He’s also pissy, but the kind of pissy you are when you’re frustrated about something wildly out of your control. Like the wish to fuck your brother when he’s lying under you, rubbing an erection against your own. Dean bites his lip not to emit a snigger.

“You know he had no interest in fucking that broad, right? What was her name? Lilly? No, Lilith. I’m sure she was pretty an’ all that, but Mike had no interest in givin’ her a dickin’,” Dean hedges confidently. “But then you said you wanted to marry her and he realised it’d mean you’d stop coming back to him. You would never again sleep with your back perfectly slotted against his chest and moments of silly horseplay would dwindle to next to never. It hadn’t yet occurred to him that sex with a guy was a thing for him. If it had, you can bet your ass on that he wouldn’t have seduced Lilith.” Dean speeds up his strokes, breathing more heavily. “He'd have gone for you. I wonder how he’d have done it? Maybe sneakily while you were sleeping, like he did... Or maybe he’d be bolder? Just tug you in for a kiss like it’s nothing, telling you it’s alright. And damn, if it didn’t feel good. How could you say no to that? Bet you couldn’t. Bet that avariciousness in you would have awakened full force until you couldn’t even remember Lil-something’s name. It would just be your perfect brother and you, sweat slicked and greedy for each other―”

Nick growls and tears himself away from Mike. He steps around Mike’s chair to grab Dean by his wrist, then bodily hauls him to the conference section of the plane. A yank sends Dean to his knees. Dean giggles, looking up at Nick, who’s looking stern and frustrated, fists on his hips and pants tented.

“You think this is funny, do you?”

“It’s hilarious,” Dean grins. “Y’all getting all flustered and worked up. I told you I’d develop a brother kink if I dwelled on it too much. But to be fair, y’all both have it already, so…” he jokes and flicks Nick’s bulge with a finger. Nick hisses and Dean chortles.

“You fucking bitch,” Nick growls and pulls down his zipper. “I hope you choke on it.” He pulls his dick out and Dean opens his mouth as wide as he can while grinning. Inside he’s thrilling, heart beating in exhilaration. Nick grabs him by the hair and guides him down over his cock. He’s not as rough as his pissy mood would lead one to believe. He lets Dean get him properly wet before he starts meeting Dean’s head-bobs with thrusts of his own. His eyes close and his head falls back, finally tightening his grip on Dean’s hair and starting to fuck his mouth in earnest, taking over control of the tempo. Briefly Dean wonders who Nick’s picturing behind those closed eyes. He finds that he doesn’t give a shit. Dean loves this. Especially when Nick pushes Dean down as far as he can over the cock, and holds him there until he nearly sees stars from lack of oxygen or gags. 

Nick pulls him off to let him cough and breathe. Dean still feels all giggly. He’s had two vodka shots by the bar, while picking out the cognac he wanted. His tolerance has plummeted since he stopped drinking regularly. Now he’s tipsy and the painkillers have started to kick in, making him high as well. The gag reflex always triggers the tear ducts and he can feel wetness running down his cheeks as he stares up at Nick with excited eyes, panting.

Nick smirks at him, breathing rough, and captures a tear with his finger to taste it. “Fuck, you’re beautiful like this, darling.”

Dean stifles a giggle. “You taste so fucking good, babe. You know who else tastes good? Michael. He leaks so much precome, he’s like a fucking pussy. And he shaves his balls. They’re smooth and perfect for sucking into your mouth,” he teases.

Nick hisses in frustration and drags Dean up onto his legs, then he lifts him and carries him to the round conference table. “You just won’t let it rest, will you?” He dumps Dean on the table in the gap between two chairs. “Lay down, then spin around and tip your head over the edge. I’m going to fuck your throat real good. That’ll shut you up.”

Said and done. The position makes deepthroating much easier. Dean jerks himself off while Nick cradles his neck, thumbs resting on his throat so he can feel himself go all the way down. His balls hit Dean in the face with each thrust. He knows Dean well, pulling out when Dean needs to breathe without him having to struggle for it. Nick reaches out and sweeps some precome from the tip of Dean’s dick. Dean can’t see it but he imagines Nick tasting it. Suddenly Nick pulls out almost all the way, only letting Dean suckle on his cockhead, and leans down on top of Dean to suck his dick into his mouth.

Dean makes helpless noises, squirms, and draws up his legs to be able to fuck into Nick’s scorching mouth. He’s totally botching his own end of this 69, but Nick doesn’t seem to care. Instead Nick gets really into it, sucking and licking and swallowing around him like it was his fucking purpose in life. Nick ain’t doing shit in half-measures. Dean twists his head away from Nick’s cock so he doesn’t accidentally bite it off when he comes, stuttering cried out cursed praise. If he was less swept up in it, he’d feel sorry for Melissa and Akari, because that sure must have been heard everywhere except cockpit.

Dean’s nothing but goo when Nick pulls off. The son of a bitch can’t just stop. Oh no. Nick keeps milking him, suckling up every drop of come like some god damned calf, making Dean jerk and wriggle from over sensitivity, begging for mercy.

When Nick finally pushes himself back to a standing position Dean has a giggle fit. Yep, definitely drunk and high. Happy butterflies tickling his belly and the inside of his ribcage, muscles made of jelly. Nick looks down at him, gaze smug and soft and amused all at once. “Sit up, darling,” he commands.

Dean struggles to obey. It’s fucking lucky that everything in this death trap is sturdy and bolted down, or the table―no matter how fancy it looks―would not have survived his inelegant floundering to get on the right keel until he’s finally sitting with his legs over the edge, staring at Nick with an adoring, postcoital lazy gaze.

Nick’s shoulders shake with silent mirth at Dean’s ungainly maneuvering. “Well done, honey,” he praises sarcastically, causing Dean to have another giggle fit. When Dean’s collected himself Nick cups his hand under Dean’s chin. “Now, spit.” Dean does, knowing what’s coming next. “Turn around, pull your pants down and lay your chest on the table.” Dean obeys, a bit more coordinated this time. He offers himself up and Nick uses his spit to wet his hole then lines himself up, pushing in incrementally slow. It burns, but no worse than Dean can take. Nick doesn’t rush it when he’s unprepped like this.

Dean speaks once Nick’s bottomed out and is leaning over him, panting. “I keep wondering who’d top, since you’re both tops. I took for granted it would be you, at first. Now I’m no longer so sure. Would you let Michael fuck you, Nicky?”

“ _Fuck._ ” Nick brackets him with his elbows and starts grinding, breathing raggedly against his shoulder.

“Would you? Would you take your brother’s cock?” Dean muses teasingly. “Come on, Luci. I’m real curious.” He uses the name Mike would use, just to push it.

Nick ignores him at first, closing his eyes, panting wetly. But then, “He’ll have to fucking earn it first.”

Dean thrills, feeling like fucking cackling out loud. He doesn’t. Instead he keeps up the dirty talk, painting Nick one tabooed scenario after another, until Nick comes with a gasp and a bitten off hiss.

Maybe Dean’s stupid, pushing Nick this way. Maybe he’s making himself surplus. But the thought of them together is just so god damned _hot_.

* * *

Mike’s cheeks are red when the two of them come back. He follows them with his gaze without saying a word. Dean wonders how much he heard. Once they’ve sat down again Dean looks at Mike, then Nick, then promptly has another giggle fit. Under the table, Mike’s foot yet again strokes his leg.

It’s going to be a long flight, indeed…

* * *


	90. Double Trouble

* * *

# Double Trouble

Dean takes the opportunity to ask while Mike’s gone to relieve himself. “Oy, babe? Am I gonna get shit for holding Mike’s hand?”

Nick gives him a puzzled frown in response. “Why would you?”

“Because if you’d caught me holding someone else’s hand you’d rip their arm off,” Dean states.

“So?”

Dean gives him a flat stare. “Yeah, no. No reason.” He lights a cigarette, takes a deep lungful of smoke, blows a smoke ring and watches it dissipate before blowing another. He’s hazy-drunk-high. Thoughts come either in too rapid fire or crawling like sludge. “And if he gave me footjob under the table, would I get in trouble for that?” he hazards.

Nick chuckles darkly and snatches Dean’s pack of cigarettes. “Why? When he got you all riled up, _for me_ ,” he purrs smugly.

It takes a moment to connect. “You saw, huh?”

Nick lights a cig, throws the pack back on the table and shakes his head while sucking in smoke. “No. But I saw _you_ , and I know my brother.”

“Sorry ‘bout that. Shoulda pushed him off.”

Nick scoffs a puff of smoke. “Don’t you think that’s _my_ job?”

In fact, no. Dean doesn’t think that. But as usual Nick’s view of what rules apply go completely down the drain when it comes to his big brother. Probably just to keep Dean confused and on his toes. “Right. Of course. Just checking,” Dean answers unconvincingly and takes a sip of his fourth glass of cognac. He’s such a lightweight since he stopped drinking. It’s fucking embarrassing.

Nick studies him with a little frown for a couple of seconds then leans forward over the table. “Darling, Mike’s been in fucking solitary for seven fucking months. If it was me, I would have fucking hanged myself. He needs some human touch. I still want to kick his ass. He needs a good ass-kicking. So I can’t go all huggy bear on him or he’ll get into his thick skull that he’s forgiven. He’s fucking _not_. But you…” Nick does a dismissive gesture with his hand. His eyelids are heavy and eyes glazed. He can't handle as much as during their glory days either. “You do you. He’ll be testing the waters and I’ll chase him off if it gets too much. It's not like you mind. Don’t worry about it.”

“Huh.” Dean blows another smoke ring. He’s not so sure he doesn’t mind. He’d prefer a straight answer. Honestly, this doesn’t make it any clearer whatsoever. If anything it blurs the lines even more. If Nick doesn’t think Mike massaging his dick under the table counts as crossing the line, what the hell does? “So where do you draw the line?”

Nick shrugs and waves dismissively again. “We’ll see.”

“Fuck sake, Nick. I’m not a mind reader. I let him do something that you think pass the line because I think you’re okay with it, and then I’ll get my head chewed off for cheating.”

“You weren’t listening, Dean. If anyone steps out of line, it’s Mike’s fault and I’ll take care of it,” Nick persists patiently like _Dean’s_ the dumb one.

“Is this some kind of test?”

Nick chuckles like the very idea amuses him. “No. What would I test? It’s not like I don’t know how you feel about him already.”

Dean makes a sturgeon face and half-nods, conceding to the point. Nick had been right there to hear him tell Mike he loves him. 

Maybe they still think of him as property. Maybe Nick wants to fuck Mike over by dangling him like bait and snatch him away just before Mike could take a bite. The thought annoys him.

Melissa comes walking with a satellite phone. “Mr. Williams on the phone for you, Sirs.”

“Which one of us?” Dean asks.

“He wanted to talk to, I quote, ‘Those beautiful sons of female dogs that pulled it off’,” she says with a smile.

“Alright. Thanks, Melissa,” Dean says with a wink and a smile while plucking the phone from her. She leaves and he raises the phone to his ear. “Dean speaking.”

“ _Deano!_ You beautiful bastard! You did it! Where was he? Can I talk to him?”

“Gabino! Yeah, we got him. Hold on, gotta see if there's a speaker option on this thing.” Dean looks at the buttons on the monstrosity and finds the speaker. “There. Can you hear me?” he asks and puts the phone in the middle of the table. 

“Loud and clear, bucko. Mikey there?”

“He's rubbing one out,” Nick offers. “Dean’s been a little cocktease since we boarded the plane and Mikey has yet to find a way to circumvent the fact that Dean’s mine now.”

“Have _not_ , and he's not. Don’t believe Nick, Gabe. Mike just went to the bathroom.”

“I'm taking Luci’s word over yours, in this case, Dean. You live to cocktease.”

“Nu-uh. When have I ever teased you?”

Both Nick and Gabe laugh at that. Dean fails to see the joke. He’d never flirted with Gabe. Had he? Nah. Sure, he’d walked around naked like he always does, let the younger brother have his eye fill. But that was a kindness, not a tease. He voices this opinion out loud.

Gabe laughs out loud and Nick sniggers. “Your husband’s pretty lush, isn’t he?” Gabe says.

“Completely sloshed,” Nick agrees. “We’re celebrating.”

“ _Gabe_?” Mike coos in delight from behind Dean and comes back to join them by the table.

“Hey, big bro! Missed your ugly buttface. They said you were too busy rubbing one out to talk to me.”

“Can you blame me? Dean’s been dirty talking me the whole flight,” Mike jokes. 

“Did _not_ ,” Dean protests. “I was merely providing alternative teenage memories and suggesting fun brotherly activities.”

Nick scoffs and Mike bites his lip. Gabe sniggers. “Something tells me I might not want to know what that's about.”

“Fucking right, you don't,” Nick snipes threateningly. 

Gabe laughs. “Okay, so I won't ask. Hey, Mikey. Where the heck have you been?”

“I'll tell you later. Right now I just want to enjoy my freedom, company, and settle for a bit before I start yapping about it.”

“Darn. You’re determined to be as forthcoming about it as dad was at his press conference, aren’t you?” Gabe complains.

Suddenly all of them sit up straight and stare at the phone with serious faces.

“Press conference? When?” Mike asks urgently. Dean’s heart is thundering in his chest. 

“About fifteen minutes ago? Called almost as soon as it was over.”

“For the love of―!” Nick mutters silently, scowling at the phone.

“Uh-huh. And what did he say?” Mike probes. Dean keeps silent and tries really hard not to look like a traitor.

“He said that he’d received word from you that you were okay and no longer under any threat, therefore he withdraws his offer of a reward. He also said he couldn’t give much more information at the moment. That’s about all he said.”

“Alright. Thanks, Gabe. Listen, we need to go now, but I’ll call you once we’re settled at Cassie’s, alright? Love you. Bye.”

“No, Mike, wait!” Gabe protests but Mike hangs up on him.

“Fuck sake! Fucking _how_? Did you forget your phone in the dungeon, Mikey?” Nick accuses.

“No, I didn't. It’s right here,” Mike replies annoyedly and throws his phone on the table. 

Dean sucks on his cigarette. 

_That means he’s alright, right? He couldn't call a press conference if he had a brain hemorrhage, right?_

Dean wishes he was magically sober. His brain feels like mush. He downs the content of his glass nervously. Yeah, because that'll surely help.

“So the bastard had a second keycard,” Nick mutters. “Didn’t feel one while I patted him down.” Nick sucks on his cigarette with a brooding frown and taps his fingers against the table. “Unless… unless the fucker had hidden the spare _in_ the dungeon already.”

“Shit.” Mike slaps a hand over his face with a rueful expression. “The painting! Dad said he'd know if I'd figured it out without me telling him. It must have been behind the damned painting.”

Urgent panic rises in Dean’s chest. If he doesn't tell them now, he'll never be able to tell them. “Didn’t see it. Only found the bloody clothes in the safe, but not the card,” he blurts. 

Nick freezes with his cig halfway to his mouth and Mike gapes at him. 

The moment where none of them speaks stretches, and the silence seems thunderous in Dean’s ears. Or maybe that's just his pulse rushing so loudly. 

Finally Nick breaks the stunned silence. “Would you mind running that past us again? I have a feeling I missed something,” he says sweetly. About as sweet as a witch's candy hut and just as deadly. The coldness in his eyes doesn’t match his sweet tone as he inhales deeply from his cigarette.

“While you were in the bathroom bickering like overgrown babies I was left staring at the painting. The painting depicted an old fisherman at sea, incidentally in a boat named ‘Marlin Bleu’. I had a hunch and took it down,” Dean explains with exaggerated patience. “Behind it I found a safe. The code turned out to be Salao. Inside there was a plastic bag with the bloody clothes. I took the bag. Once I had it, the safe was empty. No keycard,” Dean lies truthfully. The back of his neck feels sweaty.

“Pray tell, _darling_ , why didn’t you tell us right away? One would think that little detail would be _quite_ important to us all, don’t you agree?” Nick’s words are soft spoken and bitingly friendly. They seem to flow languidly with the smoke that leaks out of his mouth. They’re about as friendly as the rattling sound a rattlesnake makes as it coils for a strike. Mike’s eyes are guarded as he leans back to sip his drink, looking between the two of them. Undoubtedly, he knows exactly the cold anger harboured in that soft, smooth tone and piercing gaze.

“ _Because_ , you airhead, if I’d done that yo’ impulsive ass woulda shot Marlon dead on the spot and we’d be screwed _all_ of us. Even if we’d stuffed all the evidence in the sub level, the damned lawyer woulda come down to find Mike gone within two weeks. There’s no chance in hell we woulda been able to clean up all traces of our presence and the lawyer woulda called the police. With a forensic team gallivanting in the cellars the entrance to the sub-level would be found in a heartbeat. And how long do you think it’d take for ‘em to find Marlon then? Or Isobel? We’d go down for murder and accessory all three of us, jackass,” Dean defends himself testily.

Nick stares at him icily and he meets the gaze with a fiery one of his own. Fuck him if he thinks Dean will back down on this one. (It’s the letting Marlon out of the dungeon part he’s antsy about.)

Then something in Nick’s gaze shifts, turns pleased. His lips quirk upward in the corners. “So you’ve got the clothes?”

“Yup. In the bottom of my bag.”

“You know what this means, Mikey?” Nick asks and shifts his gaze to his brother, smirk growing downright frightening.

“What?”

“All your arguments are invalid. Dad’s got _nothing_ on me,” he purrs. “Dad’s a dead man walking.”

_Fuck!_

Suddenly Dean knows with full clarity why he shouldn’t have told them about the clothes. As long as Marlon held the clothes, Nick could have been persuaded to keep from doing anything stupid. A truce could have been negotiated. Those clothes were Marlon’s fucking life insurance. What he _should_ have done was to keep his mouth shut and just burnt the fucking clothes without anyone knowing about it. That’d keep up the balance. But his drunk brain hadn’t handled the pressure and now Marlon’s screwed.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck! Sorry, papa. I didn’t mean for this to happen._

“In that case, turn this motherfucking plane the hell around,” Dean jokes to alleviate the angsty scream in his head.

“Why?”

“You just gave me a free pass at a prime DILF,” he baits with a shiteating grin.

“Fuck sake, Dean! Don’t say shit like that,” Nick reprimands with a scowl.

Dean holds his hands up, palms facing forward. “Oy, you said it yourself. It ain’t cheatin’ if he’s dead,” he jokes and wiggles his eyebrows teasingly.

Nick’s expression turns disgusted. He angrily kicks Dean’s shin under the table and Dean laughs, trying to quell the cold pit in his stomach.

Mike laughs along. “Calm down, Luci. He’s only joking. Dad’s much too old for him to be interested.”

Dean laughs harder. Mike really doesn’t know him in that department. How could he? When Dean’s been with him he’s only had eyes for Mike. “You shoulda seen your face, babe,” he ribs Nick.

“Oh yeah? You should see your face once I’m done with it if you ever make a joke like that about dad again,” Nick mutters at Dean.

“Aww,” Mike coos and leans over his armrest to smirk at Nick. “You wouldn’t want to destroy something so beautiful, would you?”

Nick leans towards Mike with a smile that’s really just a show of teeth. Their noses are just a few inches apart. “Oh, brother dear. You have no idea how much I yearn to destroy something beautiful,” he purrs and lifts his hand to run a finger along the bridge of Mike’s nose.

_They’re fucking impossible._

Dean giggles. “Or you can just punish him the way you punish me when I do something stupid,” he suggests.

And there it is. Nick’s cheeks colouring and posture stiffening. “Fuck sake, Dean,” he complains and leans back away from Mike. He sucks a breath on his cigarette, eyes flicking to Mike, then a smirk creeps onto his face again. “I doubt he can handle it. Nobody can take it as well as you do, darling,” he tells Dean, then twists to face Mike again. “See, Mikey’s always been a bit shy around the edges when it comes to pain.”

Mike’s cheeks colour too, but he doesn’t pull back like Nick did. “It’s not supposed to hurt, little brother. If you think that, maybe _I_ need to show _you_ how it’s done. Can’t have you taking stuff from me just to break it.”

Dean almost chokes on smoke. Mike didn’t just refer to him as ‘stuff’, did he?

“I don’t _need_ you to teach me anything. I've got Dean now. You saw how well he knows me. He completes me. And he wouldn’t fucking abandon me when I need him like _you_ did.”

“Like _I_ did? Oh, that's rich! _You’re_ the one who stomped off to the fucking military on a whim, caring jack shit for how I felt about it. You’re so God damned selfish!”

“I was proving a point! What? You think I should have drilled my nose up dad’s ass like _you_ did? Fuck you!”

“Seventeen God damned years, Luci! One tour would have been more than enough to prove dad wrong. But you kept leaving me. Over and over and over again, you selfish prick! It never stopped hurting. I offered to buy you the damned flower shop and plant nursery you always dreamed about, but _no_. You signed yourself up for another tour, and another, and another. And you took colour with you every time you left. And then you have the audacity to steal the first thing _ever_ , that brought colour back into my life!”

“Um… if you guys are talking about me, I'd like to remind y'all that I'm not a _thing_ ,” Dean tries to inflict but is thoroughly ignored by the increasingly aggressive brothers. 

“I _had_ to go back! You don’t know what the hell they turned me into. And if you didn't want me to take it, then you should have treated it better. I was fucking _dying_ , Mikey! Literally dying! And you, you fucking bag of dicks, couldn't be bothered to disobey _daddy_ long enough to hold my fucking hand!”

“If I had, dad would have given the clothes to the cops and you wouldn’t have a life to hold on to!”

“It wouldn’t have made much difference if I was fucking dead, now would it?!”

“Yeah? Like you'd ever have forgiven me if I'd come, when jail was the consequence?!”

“This is all your fault! If you hadn’t started shit, making me think of you _that_ way, none of this would have happened!”

Oncoming violence hovers like a tangible thing in the air. “ _You_ started it! _You_ kissed _me_ , remember? I never would have realised―“

“ **STOP!** ”

Mike’s mouth snaps shut with an audible clack of teeth. Both brothers turn their heads to stare at Dean. Nick’s jaw muscles clench.

“Okay, to sum it up, you’re both dicks. And apparently completely fucking dense. Let’s go back to the basics, shall we? I. Am. **Not**. A thing. Or a piece of property, or it, or stuff, or whatever. Jeezus. Fuck you both. I can’t be fucking stolen. If you can’t wrap your air-filled peabrains around the fact that I’m an autonomous human being with fucking feelings of my own, I’m gonna end up walking out on both of y’all. And then what? Y’all gonna bicker about who fucked up the most?”

Mike and Nick are silent. The threat of violence hanging in the air dissipates and is replaced by a sense of guilt and tense resentment.

“I can’t be stolen,” Dean repeats and leans back in his chair, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. He lets the smoke sift out upwards and looks at them. Then he smirks. “Think of me more like… like the Stanley Cup. Or a heavyweight Champion’s belt. A prize that is won and kept solely by being the best you can be.”

The brothers react vastly different to this. Nick’s eyes widen to make a betrayed _Oh-no-you-didn’t!_ expression. Mike leans back with an interested and sly _Oh-really?_ expression. Then they side-eye each other and Nick gives Mike a warning glare. “Don’t even think about it,” he threatens.

Mike holds up his hands in surrender. “Not thinking anything,” he says innocently.

Dean leans forward and puts his elbows on the table. “Look. You both love each other. A blind fool could see that. So here’s the deal. Nick, you need to remember that we made a choice. Leave the past in the dust and make a future for ourselves without Mike or anyone else in it, or go find him. We chose to find him, and with that comes the wish to fix things, right?”

Nick looks at his lap and takes a drag on his mostly forgotten cigarette. He grunts noncommittally.

Dean turns to look at Mike. “Mike. In your head, you did everything you did solely to protect Nick, right?”

Mike nods.

“Yeah. However, what you need to realise is that Nicky and I, to us, you don’t leave a brother behind unless he explicitly volunteers for it. If he doesn’t, you stay and go down together. To Nick, when you cut him off, it was like being left behind enemy lines waiting for expected backup that never came. Then when he lay fighting for his life and you still didn’t show, it probably felt like if you were the one setting him on fire. ‘I did it for you’ doesn’t begin to cover the emotional damage the sense of betrayal caused. It’s hard to swallow shit like that even if you _can_ grasp the reason for it. Despite all this crap, none of y’all hate each other or you wouldn’t choose to sit next to each other. Just look at me. My little bro refuses to even talk to me and what I did to him was nothing compared to what you throw at each other.” Dean pauses to take one last drag on his cigarette and to pour himself a new drink.

“It’s possible you need to fight it out or go to fucking therapy or whatever. But not right now, alright? We’re celebrating. And tomorrow we need to sit down and decide what we’re going to tell the family, how to handle the press, and what to do about Marlon. I need y’all to work as my unit or things can still go to shit, alright? So unless I’m privy to some hot and steamy makeup sex, no fighting on this flight,” Dean decides. “Deal?”

“I’ll try, darling,” Nick answers but looks at Mike with a lofty smirk, “but it’ll be hard. He’d look so much prettier with a split lip.”

Dean chuckles. “You think _everybody_ looks prettier with a split lip, babe.”

“Fair enough.”

Mike snorts dubiously then looks at Dean. “I promise to do my best not to let infected feelings influence the rest of this trip. I’m sorry you get caught in the crossfire.”

Yet none of the fuckers thinks of apologising for talking about him like an object.

* * *


	91. Smack-Dab In the Middle

* * *

# Smack-Dab In the Middle

“Dean. Are you alright? I mean no offense when I say this, but you look less than at your prime,” Cas whispers as he gives Dean a welcoming hug. He’s already hugged his brothers and greeted Mavis while Dean stood swaying, waiting for his turn.

“No offense taken, Cas. I’m fucking exhausted. It’s been a rough plane ride.” Cas gives perfect hugs. Real ones, that hold affection and warmth. Mike and Nick too. Gabe’s more of a bro-hugger. He'll be flying in later.

“If you wish, I can show you to your room right away.”

“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”

“As you wish. I apologize for what I’m about to do now, but it needs to be done. It is not as personal as it may be perceived.”

“Okay?” Dean says in bemusement.

Before Cas lets him go, he moves his hand down and squeezes Dean’s ass.

“ _Cas!_ ”  
“ _Cas!_ ”

Cas jumps away and scuttles a few steps further off for safety the moment Nick and Mike exclaims his name indignantly in unison. He giggles with a gummy grin. Dean turns his head to see both his husband and his (ex)boyfriend glare threateningly at their little brother. He can’t hold back a tired chuckle. The lack of possessiveness Nick shows only extends to Mike, not all his brothers. Mike’s reaction comes as a surprise. Maybe it shouldn’t. Mike’s shown a possessive streak before. Dean just hadn’t expected that he’d still feel entitled to act upon it. 

“Follow me, please,” Cas urges once his big brothers have gone back to what they were doing. “So. How are Mikey and Luci getting along?” Cas asks and leads him to an elevator beside the staircase. He lives in what once was an apartment building in central Paris, but has been converted to only one home with huge rooms and three floors. The view is fantastic. Just outside runs the Seine, and the Eiffel Tower can be seen from every room. Big balconies, high ceilings, and a rooftop garden. Dean’s grateful for the elevator.

He makes a longsuffering noise. “Abysmally. At times they forget they’re mad at each other and things are good. But they nearly came to blows. Had to put my foot down and tell them to fucking chill.”

“And they did?” Cas asks in surprise.

“Well, yeah? I’d kicked their asses if they didn’t. But instead they kept giving each other disguised insults and barbed remarks delivered with smiles. Like they thought I wouldn’t notice. Pfft. And then they fell asleep leaned against each other just in time for us to hit some major turbulence. The assholes didn’t wake up even when it felt like we plummeted fucking miles. Melissa, the air stewardess?” Cas nods in affirmation that he knows who he’s talking about. Dean goes on. “She came and sat with me. Held my hand and everything. She deserves a fucking medal. She was like, ‘Dean, would you mind holding my hand? I get scared during turbulence.’ A total lie to save my pride. But I gotta tell you, I didn’t have much pride left. I was probably green in the face by then. Never liked flying. Wanted to give her a tip but I was outta cash,” Dean tells him as they step out of the elevator.

Cas chuckles. “I’ll make sure she gets a bonus. Here we are.”

The room is large and light. The bed is big enough for at least five people. Dean stares at it and chuckles. 

Cas squints slyly. As if he reads Dean’s mind he says. “Occasionally we host orgies here at home. But don’t worry, everything is clean and sanitized.”

Dean laughs, then catches sight of Cas expression. “You’re not joking,” he states in bemusement.

“No. I’d welcome you to join us for that, but I’m afraid fratricide would be the consequence if you did. Luci would not be forgiving.”

Dean sniggers. “Yeah, no. I know.”

“There's the en suite bathroom,” Cas says and points at a door in the room. “Mikey’s room is across from yours. My rooms are at the end of this corridor and Gabe’s will be to the right just before mine when he comes. The walls are quite soundproof,” Cas explains before bidding him to sleep well and leaving. Dean chugs his clothes where he stands and octopuses himself in the middle of the bed. Then he’s out like a light.

* * *

Late evening sees an argument. Gabe’s arrived and both little brothers have been told the truth. Now they’re holding a council. It’s not going very well. The brothers don’t see reason. Not a single one of them. Dean would never have believed all four of them would be morons. “No. It’s idiotic! You’re in a position where you can negotiate a fucking truce. Nobody else would have to suffer from this conflict. And what about the girls? He’s their father too.”

“We have decided to keep them out of the loop,” Mike answers. 

“They haven’t been involved in the rescue, nor have they made any efforts to uphold their contact with Lucifer after the disownment. This is not a matter of their concern,” Cas adds.

“I would think that the murder of their father is a pretty fucking big concern of theirs,” Dean protests.

“He got to you, didn’t he? Was it the diamond?” Nick asks smoothly. He’s leaned back in his chair, balancing it on its hind legs, his feet crossed at the ankles on the table. His arms are crossed over his chest, cig dangling between his lips, expression blank and eyes hooded.

Gabe, Mike, and Cas are all looking at him and he feels his cheeks heat up from guilt. He covers it with anger. “ _No_! Fuck you, Nick. Just because I don’t want to fucking murder him doesn’t mean he ‘got to me’ or whatever. Screw y’all! You’re so fucking spoiled with having a family that actually wants something to do with you. Even when you fuck each other over it comes from a place of love. That goes for Marlon too. You have a chance of repairing your broken relationships, or make demands that allows you to live as free as you want to and keep him off your back. Instead you’re voting him off the island. I’d die for y’all. Hell, I have killed for y’all. But I don’t get this. It should be a last resort, not a go-to resolution. And then what? Nick’s gonna go down for murder?”

“Relax, Dean. I’ll make it look like an accident,” Nick says. He’s dropped the blank face in exchange for a relaxed expression.

“It’s about loyalty, Dean,” Cas states. All five of them are sitting around the round table to discuss this.

“Yeah. Disowning Luci was bad enough,” Gabe says. “But he went and took another brother from us? Hells, I’ll never let something like that happen again.” Gabe had taken the truth of Mike’s disappearance badly. He was the most sensitive to dissent within the family, Dean noted. Or more specifically dissent amongst his brothers. That Marlon had gone to such lengths to keep Nick and Mike separated upset him something fierce. Although, the little brothers hadn’t been told the reason for that. 

Dean’s protests fall on deaf ears.

“We must wait until after the 17th next month, though,” Cas says.

“How so?” Mike asks. His initial reluctance to the patricide had dwindled to nothing.

“The process of disowning Hannah and transferring all her legal assets to us won’t be complete before then. Dividing the inheritance and restarting the process will be quite a nuisance if we don’t wait. Hannah deserves not to be further hampered before she can go through with her marriage.”

_Oh yeah, like murdering her dad won’t put a dampener on her wedding, but whatever._

The others hum their agreement.

“Then it’s settled. I end father’s life the 18th next month,” Nick declares.

Dean shakes his head and gets up from his chair. He turns and walks out of the room with his gut churning, ignoring Mike’s calls behind him.

* * *

He holds the phone in his hand, staring at the list of names on the screen. He’s in particular staring at numbers he never uses but transfer to every new burner phone. They’re all neatly adjacent to each other.

` **Pizza Palace** `   
` **Sammy** `   
` **Sammy home** `   
` **Sam's office** `   
` **Thai Garden** `

He’s in the bedroom, by the bed. His finger hovers over ‘Thai Garden’ while his pulse beats hard and fast. He’s not sure which of the numbers Marlon uses right now. Pizza Palace is the number of the phone Marlon had bought after planting his own on Dean. Thai Garden is the phone he planted. Dean had saved both numbers before he returned Marlon’s phone to the secretary.

He’s considering calling to warn Marlon what’s coming, but he’s unsure of the reaction. What if he’d lay a trap for Nick? Hire killers to take him out or make sure cops were waiting?

Each heartbeat sings a word in his ears - _Traitor, traitor, traitor._

He’s indecisive and torn. And what would he say? Just ‘Watch your back?’ or give the date? Tell him he’s sorry and that he can’t protect him? Or just call to talk to him one last time in a goodbye he shouldn’t feel the need for to begin with.

A pair of strong arms wrap around his midriff and Dean jumps in fright. “ _Jeezus_ , you’re quiet! Wear a bell or something,” he scolds, feeling totally busted.

Nick puts his chin on his shoulder and throws a brief glance at the screen before turning his head to kiss Dean on the neck. “I came to say I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to accuse you of being dad’s creature.”

Dean wants to laugh or cry all at once. “Yeah, so why did ya?” he asks testily.

Nick snuffles his hair. “Honestly?”

“Honesty is all I ever ask,” Dean says. The words ring hollow in his mouth in the wake of his own lies.

Nick hums. “I feel threatened by him. His knack of getting under people’s skin… of seducing them. Of all the people in my life, I’m the most scared of losing you.” A light drag of teeth over his neck makes Dean shiver. “I know dad isn’t interested in you the same way as I am. He doesn’t need you. But giving you that diamond… he sees you for what you are. I can’t imagine him not wanting to win you over one way or another. But I’m biased, darling.”

“Just because I don’t want him killed doesn’t mean I’m in his pocket, baby.”

“I know, darling. I know. Fear makes me a paranoid jerk sometimes. You thinking of Sammy?”

Dean turns off his phone and drops it on the bed. “Mhm. Too often. Wish I hadn’t promised him to stay away. I get jealous of you and your brothers. I don’t mean to, but feelings come whether I want them to or not,” he confesses, relieved that Nick had jumped to conclusions by looking at his screen. He can play the Sam card. He doesn’t even have to lie about it.

“ _The promise given was a necessity of the past: the word broken is a necessity of the present_ ,” Nick whispers quietly into his ear, biting lightly on his lobe and sneaking his hands inside his shirt.

Dean shivers again. Nick’s small touches awakens butterflies that tickles his skin from within. The newness of them had come and gone and he still made Dean feel electrified. “Is that a quote?” Dean asks and lays his hands over Nick’s as they slowly explore Dean’s belly and chest.

“Macchiavelli,” Nick admits. “It means promises made have been overcome by events, and therefore no longer apply. Like my promise to Mike not to take someone he loves away from him. It could apply on this situation too. You got even on Sam, and you talked to him. He might have changed his mind and you’ll never know, if you don’t talk to him again.”

“Or he hasn’t.”

“And then you’ll know. Even if he breaks your heart again, darling, you still have me and Mikey who love you and will be there for you,” Nick says and tweaks Dean’s nipples.

Dean lets out a soft gasp and closes his eyes. He allows himself to forget Marlon and be swept up in it. “I haven’t had you inside of me since we got here. Gonna do something about it or not?”

Nick chuckles darkly against Dean’s throat. “The bedroom door is open. Make sure they all can hear how much you enjoy being mine…” he purrs.

“Do your best, and I will,” Dean promises.

Later, when Dean’s riding Nick hard, body covered with possessive hickey’s and bitemarks, Nick’s gaze shifts towards the doorway and doesn’t stray. Dean turns his head to find Mike standing there, leaning on the door post, watching them with a mesmerized expression. Dean tugs Nick up in a sitting position and grinds his hips in a circular motion. He wraps his arms around Nick’s neck to keep him steady. “Admit it, babe. You’d like nothing more than for Michael to join us now. You wanna feel those pretty lips on yours while you’re buried deep in me. Fuck his mouth with your tongue and get your hands on that perfectly toned body. Make him yours, like I’m yours. Tug those smooth dark curls and mark him up. Bury your teeth in that chest of his so he knows you own him. He’ll never abandon you again. You’ll…” Dean spins his fantasy, husking it right into Nick’s ear. Nick’s expression gets more and more pained until he squeezes his eyes shut and bites down on Dean’s shoulder hard enough to almost draw blood when he comes.

When Dean looks back towards the doorway a little while later, Mike’s gone.

* * *

Nick’s slept with tee and underwear since they came here. It annoys Dean but he doesn’t utter complaints about it. What’s great is that Mavis is finally back with them again. The little fella is like prozac to Dean when it’s time to sleep. Mavis curls up close by his head and Nick spoons his back. It keeps nightmares at bay. Mavis doesn’t keep that position all night. He moves around. Leaves the bed to lie on the floor for a while, or stretches out by the foot end of the bed. But any sign of sleepy distress he’ll come right back to Dean.

One night Dean wakes up, uncertain of what woke him. He can hear Mavis snore by their feet and Nick’s heavy breathing tickles his neck. He’s got his eyes closed, so it takes him a moment to figure out that it’s too light. It was the light shifting that woke him. He opens his eyes to see the unmistakingly silhouette of Mike in the doorway, backlit by the lights in the corridor. He stands there for several minutes before he silently closes the door again.

Dean finds himself wishing Mike too would be sleeping here with them.

* * *

In the mornings Nick forgets he’s mad at Mike. Dean loves the mornings. Cas will be sitting curled up around his coffee by the kitchen table, murdering anyone that dares to talk to him, with his glare. To say that he’s not a morning person is a gross understatement. Gabe will be reading and commenting on the weirdest news he can find in the morning papers. Meg will often join them to eat breakfast. 

Dean was surprised to hear that both she and Balt had their own rooms on the ground floor. Balt lives with Bevell at the moment, but Dean asked why Balt doesn’t share rooms with Cas anyway. Cas explained that Balt and he didn’t share rooms so Cas wouldn’t be disturbed if Balt brought someone home and vice versa. It blew Dean’s mind that Cas was so okay with Balt fucking others. They’d mastered a level of ‘friends with benefits’ Dean wouldn’t even think was possible. When Dean asked if they’d ever been in a committed relationship with each other without hooking up with others, Cas had said that yes, for a while, but that was for the benefit of Alfie, a young man who’d been a third party in that relationship, who couldn’t stand sharing without getting too insecure. It had only lasted a year, since Alfie wasn’t suited for a polygamous relationship. And definitely not for an open one.

Dean knows he’s not suited for an open relationship. But when he looks at Nick and Mike together, there’s a greedy part of him that asks ‘But what if…?’

Especially in moments like these. The two of them move sleepily around the kitchen while Dean watches them. They orbit each other like a planet and its moon, seemingly unaware but still always close. Dean watches while Mike stretches himself over Nick, leaning his chest on Nick’s back, putting a hand on his hip for balance, reaching for cups in the cupboard overhead. Nick goes softer, relaxes as Mike does so.

Gabe’s gone silent to watch them with contentment as if this is how it should be. If it is, the two of them have been hovering on the wrong side of incest all their life. It’s the hand on the hip that speaks of that. It holds a lover’s familiar intimacy that can’t be gained from one night’s tumble alone. No wonder that Gabe said he wouldn’t be surprised to see them ‘merged’. 

Mike puts down three cups on the bench, Nick plucks the pot from the coffee machine and pours in all three of them while Mike drops sugar cubes in two of the cups. Nick puts the pot back and gets milk out of the fridge and pours in two cups and Mike drops spoons in all of them. It looks so coordinated. Everything is executed with small touches, shoulders brushing, a small twist of a hip to move the other out of the way, a nose booped against a shoulder blade. Dean might not see a place for himself in his X rated brother fantasies, but if there _is_ a place for him he’d like to be smack-dab in the middle.

The pair comes to the table and Mike puts one of the cups in front of Dean. “Thanks, babe.”

“You’re welcome.”   
“You’re welcome.”

Gabe hides a smile behind his hand but neither Nick or Mike react on the fact that their answer was synchronized. Instead they grab one newspaper each and sit down on either side of Dean. Yes, Siree. Dean likes being in the middle. Later in the day there will be moments when they remember that they are overgrown babies who live for drama and they’ll have at least one or two fights. Because, why not, right? But mornings are perfect. Nick rests his arm around the back of Dean’s chair, stroking his upper arm absently with a thumb while he reads. A moment later Mike’s hand lands on Dean’s thigh. Nick doesn’t seem to notice, but when the hand moves upwards towards Dean’s private parts Nick’s own hand flick out to smack Mike on the upper arm. Mike obediently lets his hand slide back down. None of them looks up from their papers.

After breakfast Gabe flits off to work or whatever he gets up to. Mike goes to the office with Cas and he and Nick go for a long walks with Mavis. This is routine. Dean hasn’t mustered up the boldness to ask Cas to be allowed to join them yet. The first days Dean had withdrawal symptoms and it wouldn’t have been recommendable anyway to try to learn anything while being scatterbrained and waspish. But five days in, he’s gagging to get himself involved in the Williams’ business. Nick on the other hand is thoroughly enjoying the downtime. It’s the first time in months he can move freely amongst people and he’s dependant on Dean to act as his translator. 

The evenings when everybody comes home is when it gets weird again. Nick and Mike can’t really be left alone or sparks will fly. Still not the kind of sparks Dean’s been filling his spank bank with. Though those kind of sparks seems to be there too, but only when the brothers are supervised by Dean. And Mike’s courting him. There’s no doubt about it. Why Nick’s allowing it for the most part, is a bit strange. And where the proverbial line in the sand is drawn shifts with the tide. Like Mike’s hand on Dean’s thigh is tolerated, but later the same day when Mike tries to sit down beside Dean he’s promptly chased off.

Later still, Nick and Dean are watching an action movie when Mike comes to join them on the couch. Dean’s curled up under Nick’s arm and Mike sits down beside Dean. Nick turns his head to stare at his brother. Mike stares back without a word. Dean anticipates that Mike will be told to fuck off, but that’s not what happens. Instead Mike slowly leans towards Dean’s shoulder until he’s snuggled up against Dean’s side. Nick doesn’t make a peep of protest. Not even when Mike snakes an arm around Dean’s belly to rest a hand against Dean’s waist.

Nick turns his head to watch the TV again and Mike relaxes. This feels goddamned _nice_. Dean can smell both their scents―after shaves mostly worn off to be replaced by their sweat and individual scents. It smells fucking at home, like when they were living in Mike’s penthouse. Their bodies are warm brackets around him. He’s acutely aware of the both of them. He shifts, putting his arm around Mike, keeping his gaze directed at the TV but his focus on Nick in the corner of his eye. Still no protest. 

Honestly, he’s lost _all_ focus on the movie. Even if all their faces are directed at the bright screen in the dark room it feels like none of them are really watching. The air feels like it’s humming tensely with anticipation. Maybe it isn’t, and it’s just Dean that’s caught up in his greedy ‘But what if…?’

Mike starts stroking with his thumb back and forth where it’s rested against his midriff. To Dean it feels like it’s burning through the thin layer of cloth in his tee. His pulse is racking up, excited butterflies taking flight in his belly. He’s afraid to move lest it’d upset the atmosphere building. He keeps focusing on the brothers out of the corners of his eyes. Nick turns his head to look at Mike’s hand. It prompts Mike to be less discreet, caressing his midriff with all his fingers and moving to stroke his belly.

Nick’s breathing very carefully. Mike turns his head to meet Nick’s eyes. Nick starts bunching Dean’s T-shirt in his hand that’s rested around his shoulder. He hooks fabric in a finger, pulling it up, then repeats the motion with the next finger, and the next, lifting the shirt inch by inch until he’s pulled it so far that Mike’s hand is fully rested on bare skin. Dean’s breath comes raggedly, his body thrumming. It feels like a nervous first date, when you’re tiptoeing around where the limit lies. He’s starting to get hard.

Nick drops the shirt, trapping Mike’s exploring hand inside, and instead presses two fingers against Dean’s neck to feel his rampant pulse. He lets out a warbly exhale that tickles the skin in Dean’s neck, making hairs prick.

_It’s fucking happening. This is it, isn’t it?_

Dean’s not certain exactly where this is leading but a flick of his gaze shows that Nick’s tenting his pants and Dean can fucking imagine several ways this can go, and _all_ of them are equally appealing.

Nick’s hand reaches out to comb through Mike’s hair. The brother’s keep their gaze locked with each other. 

Mike gets bolder. Soft hand creeping up to pinch Dean’s nipple lightly. Fuck, his hands are always so soft. Such contrast to Nick’s work rough ones. Dean lets out a soft gasp. Mike nips at his shoulder and Nick scrapes his nails against the nape of Mike’s neck. Mike swallows a moan. The atmosphere shifts, getting demanding, urgent. Mike’s hand wanders to stroke Nick’s thigh and he pushes himself higher up to kiss Dean’s throat. On the other side of him, Nick bends his head to do the same. They’re all breathing rough and raggedly now, tenting their pants. Nick’s hand not scraping Mike’s neck, finds its way inside Dean’s shirt to tease his nipples. He whimpers, eyelids fluttering, and squeezes Mike’s upper arm encouragingly where it’s looped around his shoulders. A flick of his gaze reveals that Mike’s hand has found Nick’s erection, massaging it with firm squeezes outside of the pants. Dean turns his head, nudging with his nose at Mike’s forehead, questing for his mouth while Nick sucks a mark on his throat. Mike tilts his head up, puts his soft lips on Dean’s, trades wet breaths and opens his mouth to claim Dean’s with his tongue. He never gets that far though.

“Luci, would you be amenable to assist me with some Arabic interpretation work tomorrow?”

Cas voice has the same effect on the brothers as a cattle prod would have had. They jump apart with startled yelps. Mike’s in the furthest part of the couch in the blink of an eye and Nick tries to hide his erection behind a throw pillow, eyes wide and guilty. Even in the blue light from the TV screen the brothers’ cheeks are visibly darker from a flush.

As if Cas could have missed what was going on.

Cas just stand there with an unreadable expression, looking at Nick, waiting for an answer. 

“U-um. Of course. Yes. Okay. I can do that,” Nick flusters with an uncertainty Dean’s never fucking heard from him before.

Mike stands up and leaves the room, shouldering past Cas without a word.

“Thank you. We need to leave at 8,” Cas informs him. He’s quiet for a bit, unblinkingly staring at Nick’s guilty deer-in-a-headlight expression. Then he says “Goodnight,” turns on his heel and leaves.

Nick’s stock still for a couple of heartbeats before tearing himself and Dean out of the couch and hauling them off to the bedroom urgently. He closes the door behind them and pushes Dean down on the bed, crawling on top of him. “Talk dirty to me,” he urges and licks the spot on Dean’s neck Mike had been kissing.

“Mikey?” Dean asks, wanting to clarify what kind of dirty talk Nick wants.

“ _Yes_ ,” Nick confirms cravingly. It’s the first time Nick’s asked for it. Dean obliges, but Nick interrupts him to make one more demand. “You’re there too,” he says, placing Dean exactly where he wants to be in this fantasy. 

Smack-dab in the middle.

* * *


	92. The Courtier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We came into Dean and Michael's relationship when it already had started to crack at the edges. But it wasn't bad from the start. :) I just needed you to get a little glimpse of that.

* * *

# The Courtier

Dean opens his eyes sleepily to find Nick looking at him with a lazy content expression. Pale daylight filters in through the curtains. “What time’s’t?” he mumbles drowsily.

“Six thirty.”

“Mavis?”

“Mikey took him for a walk. I’m taking him with me to the office today if you don’t mind?”

Dean mutters his acquiescence, broken by a yawn.

“You’re making it very hard for me to think of my brother in a brotherly way, darling,” Nick states out of the blue and combs an unruly tuft of hair out of Dean’s face. His hair grows like weed and it’s getting long again. It’s time to cut it into something that resembles an actual haircut.

“Mhm, yeah. I do that, yeah,” Dean agrees. “‘T’s good.”

Nick chuckles and tips forward to kiss his temple. “It’s not _good_ , you little shit.”

“Great?” Dean suggests.

“Yesterday my sweet, innocent little brother caught me with my big brother’s hand down my pants and a hardon you could cut rocks with. In my world, that doesn’t count as great,” Nick muses with a faint smirk.

Dean chortles. “Dude. Cas is a lot of things, but innocent ain’t one of them.” 

“Figure of speech. Bottom line is, the way you’ve been baiting us - and don’t you deny that that’s what you’ve been doing - I’m going to end up doing things with Mikey that brothers shouldn’t be wanting to do. I’m done trying to deny that to myself. I don’t give a shit what the rest of the world thinks, but staring into Cas eyes like that…” Nick falters and averts his gaze uncomfortably for a beat. “If we’d been about to share you, and that was all that was about to happen, I wouldn’t have had much of a problem with it. But you know that was not what was about to happen. Are you really okay with me and Mikey…?”

“How can you be in doubt? We’ve been jerking off and fucking to the idea for how long now? Yeah, I’m okay with it. Probably shooting myself in the foot on this one, making myself redundant, huh?”

Nick sniggers and kisses Dean’s temple again. “Honey, I’m worrying about the exact same thing. If what almost happened yesterday, happens, will you realise you don’t need an asshole like me when you can have Mikey? For real this time. He’d commit now that nothing’s in the way… except me, of course.”

Dean entwines their fingers and tugs lazily at them. “Babe, first off, you're both major assholes. This is an undisputable fact. You get that, don’t you?”

Nick snorts in amusement but looks like this pleases him somehow.

Dean goes on. “And, no. I won’t leave you for him. The idea of you two together turns me the fuck on. And call me greedy, but if you could play nice and, um, share… I wouldn’t exactly put up a fight. I love you both. Both of y’all make things happen inside of me. Butterflies, fireworks, electricity. The works... If you can’t play nice? Fuck it. I married you for a reason. You feel me?”

“So if it happens… when he withdraws from the equation… you’ll stick with me?”

Dean frowns in bemusement. “ _When_ he? What makes you think he would?”

Nick sighs, gives him a tight, sad smile and looks at the pillow between them. Instead of answering he pulls up his T-shirt to expose his scarring.

“Aw, fuck, Nicky. He won’t… It won’t…” Dean pauses. He’s a 100% sure that won’t make a lick of difference to Mike. _But_. “None of your brothers have seen that, have they?”

Nick shakes his head. “At the hospital I was bandaged or covered one way or another.”

“Yeah, no, okay. So here’s the deal. Your brothers _are_ going to have a real fucking emotional response to seeing that for the first time. I can tell you that. It won’t be disgust and revulsion, which I think you still believe. But they will react strongly. And you’re gonna show it to them.”

“Do I have to?”

“No. You don’t have to. But you’re gonna do it anyway. Rip the fucking bandaid. Get them all together and take off your shirt. I’ll be there with ya. Let them react and fucking endure their reactions so y’all can work it through together. Cuz otherwise one of them’s gonna walk in on ya changing clothes and freak, and that’ll be fifty times worse, I’ll tell ya.”

Nick takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and holds it in for a long time. He lets it out with a heavy sigh. “Okay. But you’ll be there, right?”

“Holding your fucking hand, baby. Every step of the way.”

“Fair enough.”

Dean chuckles. “Then I can finally have you naked in bed again.”

Nick opens his eyes to give him a dry look. “At least you’ve got your priorities in order.”

Dean wiggles his eyebrows with a shiteating grin. “Damn straight, I do!”

* * *

Breakfast that morning is awkward. It’s all Cas fault. Instead of sitting huddled over his coffee, staring blankly at some vague point somewhere on the table in front of him, his gaze tracks every tiny little movement Nick and Mike make. They notice and try to act as if everything is perfectly normal, which results in them acting anything but. Instead they hold the most polite, impersonal conversation Dean’s ever heard, smiling at each other from either side of Dean, stress straining the muscles around their eyes. Nick’s even sitting properly in his chair instead of slouching in it like he usually is.

“The weather is very nice.”

“Great weather.”

“It’s usually colder this time of the year here in Paris.”

“Is it? I wouldn’t know… Isn’t it strange that this is the first time I’m in Paris? One would think I’d have been here before, since Cas moved here.”

“Strange, yes. But then again, you always came home when you weren’t deployed.”

“I did that, yes. Maybe we should have travelled more.”

“Yes. Mayb―”

“Fucking _hell_! Shut up, will ya? You’re making it worse,” Dean complains and turns his head heavenwards in a prayer for patience.

Mike and Nick bend their necks, lift their spoons and stir their coffee in a much too synchronized manner.

“You know what? I’ve had it. I’m gonna drink my coffee on the balcony, seeing as it is such nice weather an’ all,” Dean declares sarcastically and gets up from his chair. He can feel them watching him leave. He hears Gabe making a hasty excuse to follow him.

It _is_ nice weather out. The sun is warm even this early. There’s a wisteria climbing the outside of Cas’ house and trees covered in pink blossoms can be seen on the other side of the river. Dean sits down on a chair and stares blindly in front of himself. Once upon a time he didn’t _do_ complicated. Hah! Those days are long gone.

It doesn’t take long before Gabe comes out on the balcony and closes the door. “Dean, what the hells is going on?”

_You know what? Fuck it. They’re gonna find out anyway._

“Cas is a cockblocking cunt, that’s what’s going on,” Dean mutters.

“You mind explaining a little more in depth than that?”

Dean looks up at Gabe’s bewildered face and snorts. “Yesterday I was _this_ close,” he holds up his hand, showing thumb and forefinger nearly touching, “to getting a real threesome with a huge side-order of brother kink. But Cas decided to step in just in time to stop it. So now Nick and Mike are all flustered about Cas having seen Mike with his hand around Nick’s dick. Long story short, your big bros want to bone each other. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

“Haven’t they been doing that since their teens?” Gabe asks, if anything, even more bewildered now.

Dean laughs in startlement. “No they haven’t. They got to third base once, your dad found out and disowned Nick, threatening to get him thrown in jail if Mike didn’t stay away.”

“ _That’s_ what started all this?”

“Yup.”

“Darn.”

“Yup.”

Gabe settles on a chair beside Dean and Dean gives him the full context of Mike’s and Nick’s prolonged fight. Gabe is taking the possibility of an incestuous relationship in stride. Possibly because he’s always believed there’d been one, but, whatever. Mostly he’s amused, wondering how he can turn this into something to tease the brothers about. Although, he’s nice enough to agree to not start teasing until ‘Deano’s finally gotten to be a spread on that sandwich’, so that’s something. Dean’s threat of bodily harm if he doesn’t, might also be part of it.

* * *

“Hey, Cas! Aren’t you supposed to be at the office with Nick right now?” Dean says coming down the stairs and spotting Cas in the foyer. Cas turns around and squints at him. There’s something off about him. Just something that’s… Dean can’t put a finger on it. Maybe it’s the lack of instant recognition in Cas’ eyes that tips him off, but he finally figures it out, he thinks. “Oh, je suis désolé. Monsieur James?” he hedges.

The man kind of… shifts. Posture drooping, eyes becoming alert and wide like Cas’ are not. He smiles differently than Cas. “You must be Mr. Dean. Castiel informed me you might be here. Tell me, what tipped you off? I’ve worked very hard on emulating Castiel,” James answers in French.

“I don’t know exactly. Maybe that you didn’t recognise me? And yes. I’m Dean,” Dean answers, also in French. He offers his hand to shake.

“Jimmy. Pleased to meet you.” Jimmy explains he’s just here to drop off a report on his last ‘performance’. Up close Dean can pinpoint small differences. A tiny scar just by the eye, slightly rounder cheeks, his hands are a bit slimmer and rougher than Cas’. If he hadn’t known Cas uses body doubles, he would never have figured it out. But once Jimmy drops his act he turns into a completely different person. He’s got wider gestures and is a lot more talkative than Cas. No. _A lot_ more talkative. It’s eerie and awesome at the same time. It also gives Dean the beginning of an idea…

* * *

Dean lies on the couch watching TV. It will be hours before anyone comes home. He’s bored. His thoughts circles back to Sam all the time mainly because he tries to avoid thinking about Isobel, Marlon, Nick and Mike, murder, and emotional mayhem. Somebody knocks on the door post to alert him of their presence. He turns his head to spot Mike standing there. He smiles when Dean looks at him. 

“Mike? I thought you were at the office with the rest of y'all.”

“I was. But I was wondering if you'd like to take a walk with me?”

Dean stares at him for a beat. “You know what? Yeah, I'd love to.”

* * *

Paris is a beautiful city if you don’t count all the dog shit on the sidewalks. It seems like Parisians aren't very bothered with picking up after their pooches. Dean’s also sceptical about their driving skills. Most cars are a little dented and they drive like traffic laws are recommendations for other people. He loves all the small coffee shops that look like bars and have grumpy looking men drinking black coffee from small cups, and he appreciates the well clad ladies that pass them by. The classy lingerie shops makes him envy the straight people. It also feels pretty awesome to speak French and realise that he’s pretty damned good at it. Better than Mike. Dean’s kinda proud of that.

While they stroll along the Seine Mike takes his hand like it’s natural and Dean’s belly flipflops. But Nick’s not here to set the limits. “Hey, so… I just wanna set something straight,” Dean says. 

“Yes?”

“When I said yes to Nick I meant it. To death do us part. I'm not gonna leave him for you.”

Mike gives him an unsure look but doesn’t let go of his hand. “I'll respect that,” he says hesitantly at last. He doesn’t sound too convincing, though. “I don’t know if you'll ever forgive me for what I did to you, but I'm hoping that you'll at least give me the chance to be friends.”

Dean chuckles. “Not quite what I meant. You _are_ forgiven, by the way. I got even at the ball, remember? Bygones are bygones and all that jazz.”

“So what did you mean?”

“That you can’t have one without the other.” Dean feel like a fisherman throwing out a bait with a nice, large hook in it. Greedy, that’s what he is. Trying to reel in a double catch.

Mike bites his lip, studies Dean then looks away, blushing. “Last time I gave in to those feelings, my life ended.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot and handled it in the wrong way. You know, I negotiated a deal with your old man? I did it for shits and giggles, and in the end I never took it, since I was bargaining with other people’s lives and y’all needed to get a word in if it was going to work. But what he agreed to, was to let Nick be part of the family again, get his own spending account, be allowed to live with you so you could do whateverfuck you wanted. As long as I could guarantee that you two would be so discreet you’d never get busted, and that you retook your position leading the family business alongside him.”

Mike’s eyebrows fly upward in bafflement. “Really? What was the sacrifice?”

“Me.”

“So you’d have to make yourself scarce then, huh?”

“Not even close. I’d be working in the family business too. But since the deal fell through I’m not going into details. Point is, there were other options that woulda made Marlon grudgingly accept your love for each other as long as it didn’t hurt the rest of the family or your business.”

Mike shakes his head. “I can’t imagine that.”

“That’s why you mishandled it. Did you know Gabe was shocked, hearing about what happened yesterday, not because Cas caught you and Nick having a go with each other, but because he thought you’d been boning since your teens?”

“What? Jesus Christ!” Mike slaps a hand over his mouth and turns beet red.

Dean sniggers and pulls him to a stop, then hooks his fingers in his belt and pulls him close. “Babe. Listen to me. You an’ Nick. What you feel for each other comes as a surprise to nobody but yourselves. It makes me jealous but also turns me the fuck on. You love him to bits, don’t you? You want more than just brotherly interaction?”

Mike removes the hand in front of his mouth and rests his hands on Dean’s hips instead. “I’m trying not to want him that way, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, stop trying. It’s fucking reciprocated. Although, y’all need to talk to each other like fucking adults, like we’re doing now, or it ain’t gonna work. And I need to know, can _you_ forgive him?”

“For what?”

“For leaving for the army. For signing up for new tours when his contracts ran up. I’ve been listening when you’ve been chewing each other out. You’re as hurt as he is.”

“I always forgive him, Dean. Always. I just don’t understand why he had to go back and leave me again. He never wanted to join the forces. He wasn’t exactly happy there and he kept saying he wanted to stay at home. He just said he _had_ to go back. That he _couldn’t_ quit. I don’t get it.” Mike’s expression holds repressed desperation. Dean think it’s the memory of the pain that caused.

“Huh. I suppose you get what it felt like for Nick too, then, when you didn’t offer a valid explanation for your rejection. I can explain why he had to go back. But I ain’t gonna do it amongst people.”

“Then let’s go home.”

On the way home Dean brings up another topic. He lifts Mike’s hand to his mouth and places a kiss on the knuckles before dropping their joint hands again. Mike’s turned his head and gives Dean his full attention, which was what Dean was aiming for. “I want in on the family business,” he says.

“What do you want? Stock shares? Name it and I will give it to you.” Mike looks almost hopeful. He likes giving gifts and Dean had rarely asked for anything. Dean remembers how much Mike enjoyed going shopping together. If Dean liked something, Mike would jump at the chance to buy it for him. But Dean had felt like trash - a whore. He’d hated the feeling of being bought. Now he reminds himself that he’s a pedigree pal just like Mike. He isn’t worthless bottom scrapings. If Marlon was secure enough in his abilities to offer him apprenticeship and trust his judgement, then he’s fucking up to the task.

“I want you to teach me the trade. I want to work. I want to be present at board meetings and be part of decision making. I want you and Cas to teach me. I don’t care for owning jack shit, but I want to be a part of the small cogs that make all the big wheels spin.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, and before you go all patronizing about it, I _know_ I ain’t got no fancy education. That’s why I’m asking you to teach me. I learn best by watching and doin’. I want to _learn_ , until I’ve found my place in the family business. Whether it be gathering intel, negotiating, buttering up douchebags on the golf course, or making personnel decisions. I _am_ a Williams now. The family’s interests are mine too. I also happen to know that there’s a corner office opening up at HQ somewhere around the 18th next month. I want to earn myself an office at the top floor.” He can feel the determination brewing inside of himself. The same determination he’d felt about joining the army as a kid. As he puts it to words, he feels how badly he wants this.

Mike bursts out in a startled laughter and Dean turns towards him to tell him to go fuck himself. But before he can say anything Mike captures his face between his hands, grinning widely with sparkling eyes. “You’re one ballsy player, Dean. But you’re perfect. Every inch of you is perfect. This is something I’d be more than happy to see happen. You realise how hard work it is, though?”

“Don’t insult me, jackass. I know what hard work is. But I can do this shit. I can fucking feel it. Wouldn’t be the first one in my family to trade uniform for business either. Got centuries of forefathers doing just that.”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult, soldier. I’m sure you’re up for it. We’ll make it happen. I’ll talk to Cas and Gabe and you’ll get to shadow each of us in turn. It surprised me at first when you started discussing work with me while I was locked in. But you’ll do great, I’m sure. As long as you’re patient and trust our judgement, we’ll find your niche.”

“Oh, um. Thanks.” Dean had thought Mike would put up more of a fight.

Mike leans in, wetting his lips while looking at Dean’s. He halts just before he’s about to kiss, gaze flicking up to meet Dean’s eyes. Dean’s pulse jumps. Another thing he hadn’t expected, and Nick’s not here to set the boundaries. He wets his lips―a sign of permission―and Mike closes the distance for a soft and chaste, lingering kiss. Dean’s legs feel like jelly. It’s dizzying and it’s just a chaste and tender thing, not demanding in any way.

Mike breaks it and steps away with an affectionate smile. He takes Dean’s hand and starts walking again. 

Apparently Dean isn’t the only one fishing with a baited hook.

* * *

Mike’s a lot less handsy when Nick’s not around. Apart from that one kiss, it’s like the brothers have come to an unspoken (or spoken when Dean wasn’t around) agreement that Nick should have the right to defend his right to his mate, or whatever. (He’s loathe to use the word property.) Maybe it has to do with the way they’re raised. They still did the whole marriage of convenience thing. It was a woman’s job to act as a barter piece to secure alliances, even in cases like Hannah’s, who marries for love. Marlon had accepted him as a part of the family based on the fact that he’d married his son. Dean can’t remember who said it, but one of them had described the difference between men and women in the family as ‘It’s a man’s job to rule the world, and a woman’s to rule the man.’ Maybe it confuses the hell out of all of them as soon as homosexuality came into play? They know what roles they’re supposed to play, which puts him in the woman’s position, but at the same time he’s a man, and they’ve been taught to view men differently.

If he’s honest with himself, he might be putting out double signals. He demands not to be treated like property, while at the same time he fucking enjoys when they get possessive. Nick fighting Big Jay for an instance. The way both the brothers would lay an arm proprietary around him if someone came on to him. It made him feel valued and _earned_. While the two of them arguing about him over his head, or the way Mike had cut him out of big parts of his life, made him feel the opposite. Mike’s the worst offender when it comes to this. Although, he obvious held the respect for Dean that Dean craved, or he wouldn’t have been so willing to let him find his place in the family business.

Dean considers it while he walks hand in hand with Mike on the way home. They stop by an ice cream parlor and Mike holds the door open, pays for the ice creams, then pulls out the chair for him when they sit down by one of the small round tables outside to enjoy the sun. Mike’s in full courting mode, just like he had been when they first met. “Do you remember our first week together?” Dean asks.

Mike smiles wistfully. “How could I forget? You changed my life from one moment to another.”

Dean grins and spoons some ice cream in his mouth. “Yeah. You had me all confused, man. One moment I thought ‘Dude, this guy wants me _bad_ ,’ and in the next I was convinced you were as straight as they come.”

Mike chuckles and shakes his head. “In my defense, I was new at courting a man. I didn’t know if I was doing it right. Asking was apparently not the right thing to do either.”

Dean sniggers. “Yeah, no. Asking was fine, but your timing was shit. You had me swooning like a blushing maid in a Harlequin novel. The tension was sky high. Hell, the air was fucking vibrating with it. And instead of kissing me you went ‘Uh. Am I doing this right? I’m not hurting your masculinity or anything?’”

“I was nervous, okay? And you, you evil lout, couldn’t stop laughing at me!” Mike laughs.

“Yeah, well. I was nervous too. I was falling head over heels for you and we hadn’t even kissed. That’s not how it usually goes for me.” He remembers it well. The first kiss had happened on the fourth day. It had taken three whole days to fucking establish that Mike was indeed flirting with him. Dean’s own signals had passed Mike straight by, and it hadn’t been until Dean had mentioned an ex boyfriend in passing that Mike had stopped giving conflicting signals and gone into full courting mode. He’d taken Dean out for a dinner at a fancy restaurant, given him flowers, held doors open, pulled out chairs, shyly taken Dean’s hand as they strolled through the city that evening. They’d sat down on a bench in a park and watched the stars. Mike had noted how he shivered from a chilly breeze and taken off his coat to put over Dean’s shoulder. Very discreetly Mike had put his arm around him, like he’d been afraid Dean would protest. The moment afterwards both had gone quiet and the anticipation hung thick in the air. Dean’s heart had thundered in his chest, his belly filled with nervous butterflies and every part of them that touched had tingled even with their clothes separating them. Then Mike had leaned in for a kiss. Dean might not have been that nervous before a first kiss since his very first one as a teen. But Mike had paused just to ask that dumbass question and Dean had the giggle fit of the century.

Mike chuckles warmly. “So how does it usually go?”

“Usually I hook up with a guy, discover we have chemistry, keep seeing him and _then_ feelings come. I can honestly say that nobody’s ever courted me like you did.”

“Not even Luci?” Mike asks with a troubled frown and licks his ice cream cone.

“Nope,” Dean answers, popping the P. “But we were trying very hard to repress that we had that kind of feelings for each other. I had a boyfriend, remember?” he winks at Mike. “And Nicky didn’t want to be like you, and _steal_ someone you loved. We didn’t admit how we really felt towards each other until long after I found out about Bevell. Though, I gotta say, he’s one romantic SOB when he wants to be. Like he threw this surprise six months anniversary of our friendship. Looking back it screamed ‘romantic date’, but whatever.”

“What did he do? Or am I not allowed to know what happened behind my back?” Mike asks with an open and curious expression totally free of resentment.

“Nah, it’s cool. We…” Dean tells him while they finish their ice creams. About the anniversaries, how the friendship got started and progressed. About the fights, the angst, the joys. Rather than showing jealousy Mike soaks it in like gospel. Of course, Dean doesn’t tell him about the brief period when he’d fucked anyone who’d have him.

“I never dared asking what you did when I was away,” Mike confesses. “I wanted to. I wanted so badly to be part of your life in any way I could, but I knew I couldn’t grant you the same with father’s threat hanging over me. I was afraid that if I asked about your life, you’d ask about mine.”

“Yeah, I woulda done that. I wanted to know everything about ya. That wall you slammed up was what killed us.” Dean takes up his cigarettes and put them on the table. This is an open outdoor café and as such not affected by the smoking ban. Mike reaches out and takes the pack, takes out a cigarette and the lighter, lights the cig and hands it over just like he frequently does for Nick. It makes Dean’s heart take an odd little skip. He takes a drag of the cig and spots something familiar but muted in Mike’s eyes. Something hungry, just like when Nick feeds him pills straight into his mouth. “Can I ask you something? How did Marlon find out about you and Nick? I never figured that part out.”

Mike shifts and averts his gaze. His tongue runs over his teeth under closed lips and he drags a hand through his hair. “Uh, yeah. All my fault I’m afraid. I’m really bad at lying to father and, uh…” Mike looks up, chagrined. “You’ve never seen me masturbate by myself, but I get, uh, quite vocal. Father walked in on me.”

“He always walks in without knocking?”

“Yes. No. Not if I had someone in my room or if it was later than ten o’clock. But it wasn’t all that late and I didn’t think he was at home. And after Luci first kissed me everything suddenly stood clear to me. How I really felt about him. After that he dominated all my fantasies.”

“And _he_ kissed you?”

“Yes. It was supposed to be just to goad a couple of girls to make out with each other and then come home and sleep with us. Which they did. But everything was forever changed after that kiss.”

“And you still love him that way?”

“Lord help me, but I do.”

“And you still love me?”

Mike smiles. “Seems one love doesn’t cancel out another. I do.”

Dean huffs an amused cloud of smoke. “Alright. Aren’t you mad at me about what I did at the ball?”

“No. I thought it was just. I think you were unnecessarily cruel towards Toni, but it got me out of the engagement so I’m forever grateful for it,” Mike answers with a lopsided smile.

* * *

Back home they end up on the couch. Mike puts his arm discreetly on the backrest behind Dean and Dean has trouble not laughing at the way Mike creeps like a highschooler. He leans towards Mike’s shoulder, figuring it’s innocent enough.

“So why did Luci have to go back to the army?” Mike asks. He hasn’t forgotten the promise of an explanation. They’re alone here now. Nobody to overhear.

“Your brother is a sadist and a killer,” Dean states bluntly. “As I’ve understood it, it’s always been an inclination of his, but once the forces got a hold of him they took that ember and made it a full blown firestorm. They turned it into a need. I’ve seen it happen before. It doesn’t work well with civilian life.” Nick had told him he told Mike everything. Mike knows about the jobs Nick did for Roman for an instance.

“But he’s managing it just fine now?”

“Nu-uh. He ain’t. And that’s why we decided that he’ll go freelancer once things have settled down. We, uh. At times we have a fairly extreme form of sex, when I let him act upon his sadistic urges. But I told you we had to silence a witness. I saw something in him then. ‘T’s like a hunting dog that needs to hunt. If it doesn’t, it’ll start taking down sheep. We made a deal. I choose the gigs because my conscience won’t stand for random killings of innocent people, but he gets to let off steam and do what he is good at.”

Mike’s silent and thoughtful. He bends his elbow to stroke Dean over the hair. Dean twists his head to look at him. “How do you feel about that?”

“Honestly?”

“No lie to me, jackass,” Dean snaps. “Yeah, truthfully. This is fucking important.”

Mike takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He closes his eyes and buries his nose in Dean’s hair. “I,uh… It scares me. He scares me, but…” Mike pauses. When he speaks again his voice is lowered just above a whisper, like he’s admitting a shameful secret. “I’ve always loved the monster as much as the man… maybe more, even.”

Dean blinks in surprise. But then again, maybe it makes sense. Somehow it explains why Mike had been a driving force behind so much mischief when they grew up, like Nick told him. 

Mike likes to see the lion hunt…

* * *


	93. The Elephant Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the title reference doesn't mean anything to you, just google it. :)

* * *

# The Elephant Man

“How was work?”

“I fucking hate people. I don’t know how Mike and Cas can fucking stand the jobs they do. Oh, and it went great. Cassie is ten times more devious than I took him for. And I took him for pretty fucking shrewd. Didn’t I tell you he's the smartest one of us? Well he fucking is. I acted as an interpreter when he negotiated a deal with three parties from the Middle East. Speaking of, we're invited to Sheik Karim’s harem if we wish to enjoy the beauty Saudi Arabia has to offer. I politely declined, but should you suddenly contract bi-ness, the invitation still stands.”

Dean sniggers and raises an eyebrow at Nick. 

“Just saying,” Nick defends himself. He’s buzzing with energy and talking a mile a minute. Dean thinks he’s high. 

“Cas. You were talking about Cas.”

“Oh, that's right. I was negotiating for him, thinking he was making an idiotic deal, so when we were done, everyone had readily signed their contracts and left, I asked what the hell he was doing. He explained. I was right. It was a shitty deal. Right _now_. But in six months something will hit the market that changes the field, and he'll suddenly sit on a goldmine.”

“Industrial espionage, huh?”

“No. It’s all about people's personal dealings. He's a fucking genius. It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it? Anyway, all the people at the office drove me mad. Mavis, the little shit, had to trot up to every fucking accountant that looked borderline friendly. I've had to listen to at least four self-entitled fucktards explain to me that I couldn't name my dog Mavis because he’s a he.”

“Accountants, huh?”

“I don’t know what they were, I didn't ask for their life stories,” Nick whines, scrunching his face up in displeasure. Dean thinks he’s adorable when he does that. “Not that it stopped them from giving them to me. Tell me, darling, where is the stamp on my forehead that says I want to hear everything about a random stranger’s cousin’s chihuahua, or the dog they had as a child, just because I own a dog myself?”

Dean laughs. “You seem plenty interested when we meet people on dog walks.”

“Yes, but those people usually provide a dog of their own for me to coo at,” Nick points out.

“You’ve got a point. And none of the dudes y’all were negotiating with had any problem with Mavis being present? Don’t they consider dogs dirty?”

Nick snorts. “People are people everywhere, Dean. Sheik Omar breeds salukis to hunt gazelles and hares. He also breeds Arabian horses, and we’ve got an invitation to visit him too. If you could consider a trip to Saudi Arabia, hunting with salukis from atop a world class Arabian flung itself right towards the top ten on my bucket list.”

Dean smirks affectionately. “Okay, none of that made much sense to me. I take it salukis are dogs and you wanna go horseback riding. Is that it?”

Nick sucks in a mock-insulted breath. “You ignorant plebeian! Arabian horses are pegasuses with invisible wings. Noble and beautiful and fiery. They’re to other horses what sports cars are to station wagons. Especially the race horses Sheik Omar breeds. And, yes, salukis are dogs. They’re built for speed, just like greyhounds. You know what _those_ are do you?”

Dean’s lips twitch in amusement. “Yeah. They’re the anorectic looking ones. Right?”

Nick makes a long-suffering sound and looks downright miserable, giving Dean a _this-is-the-fool-I-was-stupid-enough-to-marry-and-I’m-currently-regretting-it_ look. “Yes. It is,” he says defeatedly.

Dean laughs. “Sorry for not keeping up with the latest issue of Horse & Hound, baby. But you know, if you really want to take a trip to the desert to check something off your bucket list, I’m fine with you doing it without me too. As long as visiting harems ain’t on the list.”

Nick perks up. “Really? I’d prefer to have you with me, but it’d be quite an experience either way.”

Dean isn’t all that hot on the idea of climbing onto the back of a horse. “I’ll think about it. So what didja take?” he hedges.

“Coke. I asked my brothers to gather in the kitchen after dinner. I decided to do what you told me to. Rip the bandaid. I’m really fucking uncomfortable― scratch that. I’m scared shitless of how they’ll react to seeing me. Needed a confidence boost, so I asked Cas if he could get me some.”

“Cas does coke?”

“No. But he knows how to get it. It’s a good way to butter up some people before making deals. Go out partying with them, provide them with lots of alcohol and the drugs of their choice. Gets them friendly.”

Castiel’s voice from the doorway startles them. “I have a powder that looks like coke but isn't harmful in any way. I will snort it to make them think we're on the same level. I will also drink mostly alcohol free drinks that look like normal drinks, and consume just enough alcohol to have it on my breath. It gives me the advantage of a mostly clear mind while their cognitive functions are vastly reduced. It’s a great way of doing business with young men who've just made a killing, thinking themselves on top of the world, not realising that they're essentially nothing but chum to big fishes like me,” he drones matter-of-factly. 

“See? Always the quiet ones,” Nick says and points at Cas as if proving his point. 

Dean sniggers. He wonders if that too is something Cas learned by observing Marlon, but he can’t for his life imagine Marlon even pretending to do drugs.

* * *

Nick’s done at least two more lines. He’d offered Dean too, but Dean declined. Not that he wanted to say no, but he figured he better be clear headed for what was to come. During dinner Nick was chatty and upbeat. But now all the dishes have been cleared and the brothers are seated with a drink of their choice. Sparkling water for Cas, Red Bull for Gabe, and white wine for Michael. They’re looking expectantly at Nick. Nick leans towards Dean and hisses a whisper in his ear. “ _I can’t do it_.”

“Yes, you can, baby. Or I’ll do it for you,” Dean murmurs soothingly.

“No, I fucking ca―”

“Alright, listen up!” Dean declares with a loud and clear voice. “The reason Nick wanted to talk to you is because he got hurt in battle. I know y’all know that already, but your brother was damaged in several ways more than just physically.”

Nick’s face goes blank, but he doesn’t tell Dean to shut up. The others keep quiet and listen attentively.

“He loves you, and you love him, something he’s sure about or he wouldn’t want to reveal this to you. So this ain’t something y’all go yapping about outside our circle. Is this clear?” Dean waits until he’s gotten affirmatives from all of them before he goes on. He strokes Nick soothingly up and down his back. Nick keeps his gaze focused on the table. “Nick’s insides were made a mess of from grenade shrapnel. Y’all already know how close to death he was, so I ain’t gonna go into those details, but when it comes to the internal damage made, he still suffers a lot of pain for it. When you see him munching painkillers like candy, it’s not purely for the fun of it.”

Cas squints at them, tilts his head and laces his fingers together on the table. “Do you wish for us to stock up on potent pain relief so you’ll always have it available any time you visit?” 

The question startles Nick enough to lift his gaze and meet his little brother’s gaze. “Yes. That would be appreciated. I mostly buy it from the black market. Doctors don’t readily want to prescribe what we need, and we’re both uninsured, so―”

All three of the brothers stir and start talking at once, equally upset all the sudden. Dean can’t hear a word until Mike demands “Quiet!” When everyone’s silent again he turns towards Nick and Dean. “I’m so sorry. I’ve assumed you were. This is a gross oversight on our part and I’ll make sure you’re both insured from tomorrow.”

“Glad to hear, because Dean suffers worse from chronic pain than I do. And he hides it well.”

Dean wonders how the hell the focus shifted towards him all the sudden, but, whelp, there they are, all looking at him.

“Is that true, Dean?” Mike asks.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You said your leg acted up on you sometimes,” Mike probes, hazel green eyes filled with empathy and distress.

“Yeah, it does. When I run or exert myself the pain gets acute. Usually it’s just a dull ache. But I’m used to it. No biggie.”

Nick snorts and gives him a flat stare. “When he says acute, he means it gets so bad he can hardly stand and even less walk. But the fucker can still fucking smile and keep a straight face.”

Mike looks as if this hurts him personally. He meets Dean’s eyes and mouths “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dean shrugs it off.

“We’ll make sure you have access to good pain relief, then. I’ll stock up on several different kinds, since I’ve heard that if you only use one for a long period of time, it loses its potency,” Cas declares. “Is there any other issues that need addressing when it comes to medicine or care that we might need to know about?” 

“There is,” Mike says decisively. “Dean has at several times made known that he finds hospital environments traumatic, and he doesn’t want to go there unless it’s a life or death situation. So for future reference, we need to bring the doctors to us if he needs treatment. Does that apply to you too, Luci?”

Nick nods.

“It’s settled then. Insurance, painkillers, house calls, _check_ ,” Gabe states.

Dean had not expected this to turn into some kind of executive meeting. But then again, what else should he have expected, with a table full of leaders? “There’s another thing. The real reason we wanted to bring y’all together tonight.” At his side Nick tenses up again. “Nick contracted substantial burns on his body, and those left physical scars. Nick’s self-image and confidence took a hit from it, which is why he hasn’t shown himself unclothed to you. He thinks he looks like the elephant man or something, not the sexy motherfucker _I_ see when I look at him. But I figured that if I saw Sammy having scars like this, I’d react pretty fucking strongly. So Nick’s gonna show it to ya, and we’ll talk about it.”

“Great. Now I feel like a fucking circus freak,” Nick mutters and gives Dean a dark glare. 

“Didn’t you hear me? Elephant man,” Dean jokes and wiggles his eyebrows with a cheeky grin.

Nick huffs in perturbed amusement. “Asshole.”

“You ready?”

“ _No._ ”

“Ready as you’ll ever be then. Come on.” Dean takes Nick’s hand, pulls him up and leads him to a place on the floor by the side of the table so all of them will have a good view. He hooks a hand around Nick’s neck and leans their foreheads together. “Remember, babe, these are people that love you. This won’t make them love you any less. However they react, it comes from seeing someone they love hurt, not revulsion. Remember that, okay?” Nick nods and Dean steps away. “Take your shirt off,” Dean instructs. 

Nick takes a deep breath, holds it, closes his eyes and pulls his shirt over his head. Dean takes his hand as soon as the shirt is dropped to the floor. Nick keeps his eyes closed but Dean watches the reactions closely.

The initial reaction is the same, only various degrees of poker faces. Castiel is the one with the most controlled one. His eyes widen and he visibly swallows, other than that he doesn’t reflect his feelings as much as the other two. Gabe’s gaping, horrified. Mike’s covered his mouth with his hand, looking equally horrified, eyes getting glossy. In Mike, he also sees what he had expected. The reason Dean wanted Nick to do this now, and not spring this on Mike in a sexual situation - _guilt_.

Gabe recovers somewhat. He utters a little laugh. “Damn, big bro. I know you’re dedicated, but that’s not how scarification artworks,” he jokes.

Nick huffs in self-deprecating amusement but thankfully doesn’t open his eyes. Mike’s face is crumbling. He couldn’t look more devastated if Nick had emptied a magazine of bullets in the middle of his chest.

Cas gets up from his chair and approaches them. “Does it hurt?” he asks. He’s got his poker face back in place and just looks serious.

“Not really. It’s mostly numb or strains. Sensitivity is all messed up, but Dean found new, weird ways to cause pleasure there,” Nick admits.

“Can I touch?”

A sob escapes Mike. He gets up from his chair and rushes from the room. _Fuck_. Dean hopes Nick won’t freak out or think of it as revulsion or rejection when he notices.

“Go ahead.”

Gabe comes forward to join Cas. “That looks like a lollipop,” he says and traces a ridge in the scarring.

“You think everything looks like candy,” Cas chastises. Then to Nick, “Have you considered plastic surgery, or other modifications of this?”

Nick opens his eyes to look down where his brothers are touching his scars curiously. “I’ve been thinking of covering it up with tattoos.”

“And it doesn’t hurt?” Gabe repeats.

“No. Where’s Mikey?”

“You know, if we ever put up a play of the lion king, you’re going to have to play―” Gabe starts to joke.

“Don’t say it,” Cas cuts him off.

“Where’s Mikey?” Nick repeats, getting distressed.

“Sschh. Stay with me,” Dean urges and squeezes his hand.

“We were told you were hit by a grenade, but they don’t leave scars like this. What really happened?” Cas asks and squints up at Nick.

Nick shares a worried look with Dean, but stays put to answer his brothers’ questions. Gabe keeps cracking jokes, but asks if it hurts at least twice more.

A moment later a sniffle from the doorway makes them look up. Mike stands there, face splotchy and red from crying, tear tracks on his cheeks. He shakes his head, green eyes locked on Nick’s face. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should have been there. I should have―” Another sob tears through him. Dean can feel a lump forming in his own throat, making it hard to swallow. Mike takes three big strides and flings himself onto Nick, clinging, nearly squashing Cas between them because he isn’t moving out of the way fast enough. “I’m so sorry, little brother. I should have been there. I’m so, so―”

Nick’s arms circle Mike, hugging him right back. His lips wobble. “Fuck sake, Mikey. You’re making me cry. Don’t make me cry, asshole,” Nick protests, voice warbling and nearly breaking. He squeezes his eyes shut and the first sob tears through him. Nick breaking sets Mike off crying again. Dean steps away to give them space. He feels like an intruder. But Gabe and Cas just hug their older brothers from the sides, creating a solid wall of affection while their big brothers are vulnerable.

Dean’s eyes sting. He thinks of Sam.

* * *


	94. Truce

* * *

# Truce

The sound of Mavis jumping out of the bed wakes him up. Mavis’ nails click on the floor as he pitted patters towards the door. Once again, Dean can see light through his eyelids. Sound tells him Mavis greets their nightly stalker. Mostly, both Dean and Mave sleep through it, but Dean suspects that Mike comes to stare at them every night. Dean doesn’t open his eyes. He’s curled up against Nick’s chest, head resting between Nick’s (finally!) naked pecs, their legs entangled. The evening had been muted and awkward between Nick and Mike after they'd cried themselves out and Nick had been exhausted. 

Nick stirs, lifting his head from the pillow. “Can't sleep, brother?” he half whispers. 

“No. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up,” Mike answers from the doorway in the same hushed tone. 

_Yeah, because staring at people sleeping ain’t creepy at all._

Not that Dean minds, but whatever. 

Nick reaches over Dean and pats the bed on the other side of him. “There’s room for one more. Maybe you’ll sleep better if you’re not alone.”

Just like that, Dean’s wide awake.

He keeps his eyes closed and _tries_ to keep breathing as if he’s sleeping. His heart rate go up when he feels the bed dip behind his back. Mike doesn’t lay down close enough to touch, though - the damnation of a huge bed. Dean listens to the sounds of Mike taking one of the comforters to pull over himself. Then Mavis jumps back up on the bed by their feet somewhere on Nick’s side. Dean hears him stomp around and pull at the comforter to create a little nest to sleep in before settling down to sleep again.

Silence. 

The only thing Dean hears after that is the careful breathing of the brothers on each side of him. 

It’s the kind of tense silence that can be felt like a physical thing.

He wonders if they know he’s awake. He wants to shift, but doesn’t dare to move lest he gives himself away. It _feels_ like the brothers are just as still as him, waiting for something.

It’s hard to tell time when you’re in the state of hyper-awareness Dean’s in, but it takes somewhere between five and ten minutes before Nick speaks. “Dean? Are you asleep?” he asks quietly, not quite whispering.

Dean doesn’t answer.

The silence drags another minute, then…

“I, uh… I didn’t want to live anymore,” Nick says carefully. Dean can hear him swallow before he goes on. “When I came back, and you still didn’t want anything to do with me. I wanted it to end.”

“I’m sorry, Luci. In my mind, it was the only thing I could do, to keep you safe,” Mike answers. Their voices are hushed and cautious.

“I know, Mikey. I know _now_. But it was hard. I didn’t understand. I was seriously considering suicide by cop,” he admits. “But then Dean…” he lets his voice trail off.

That was unexpected. Somehow, the idea of Nick committing suicide feels utterly foreign. Mike? More likely. But Nick seemed like the type that’d stay alive just to piss people off.

Mike shifts position, swallows dryly. When he speaks Dean can tell he’s lying on his side, facing their way. “I’ve missed you both so much, Luci. This… this is hard for me. Do you want me to take a step back regarding him?”

Nick doesn’t answer.

“I should have been at your wedding. I regret having missed it. Even if you married my… even if you married the man I wanted,” Mike says once it’s clear that Nick isn’t going to answer. “I promised you I would be your best man back when we were six and you started planning your dream marriage. I’d been looking forward to your wedding almost as much as you. I should have kept that promise no matter what. I should have been there.”

“You were. Both Dean’s brother and you had your own plates seated beside us. I, uh… I had our song as Dean’s and my wedding waltz.”

_Well that was news. Huh. Not all that surprising, though…_

Mike huffs in amusement. “Dean agreed to that?”

“I didn’t _tell him_ , jackass. He let me plan most of it, but said flat out no to Billy Idol.” Nick sniggers. “So I suggested Juliet Lyons without telling him which song I wanted.”

Mike chortles quietly. “Why am I not surprised?”

The silence that falls has another feel to it. Mutual cheekiness, perhaps? It’s not heavy and tense. Behind Nick’s feet somewhere Mavis’ feet twitch in his sleep and he wuffs quietly as if he’s chasing a rabbit or something.

“I miss you, Luci. You think… you think you could ever forgive me?” Mike asks after half a minute has passed.

Nick once again doesn’t answer. Not in words at least. Instead he pulls the comforter Dean and he are sharing off of Dean to expose him to Mike. Dean’s pulse jumps into overdrive. Nick strokes him over his flank with a rough hand, leans closer―over him―hand disappearing. Dean strains his ears to figure out what he’s doing. When his hand returns to Dean’s midriff it’s holding Mike’s softer, smooth hand, trapping it under his own, guiding it in a caress over Dean’s skin. Mike lets out a shuddering breath.

_Fuck! Am I supposed to feign sleep through this?_

That might be really fucking hard.

Despite goosebumps and a libido waking up, Dean tries to keep up the pretence, anticipation buzzing about what may come next. Nick and Mike both have a thing for copping a feel while their target is out of it. He knows that. And however much he might protest the ‘property’ stamp - Nick feeling entitled enough to decide that someone is allowed to touch him while he’s out of it, only serves to excite him. Hell, it’d turn him on even if it _wasn’t_ Mike’s hand Nick was guiding over his skin. As long as it was a guy, he’d be up for it.

Nick tugs at Mike’s hand. Mike scoots closer until he lies just beside Dean, a warm line pressed up along his back. Mike’s wearing boxers and a tee, but the touch is thrilling either way. Dean’s concentrating hard as he can at figuring out exactly what they’re doing based on sound, the way the bed dips, and touch. If he’s got it correct they’re both on their sides, supporting themselves on an elbow, looking at each other over Dean’s head.

Nick uses Mike’s hand to caress first Dean’s side, then belly. His hand disappears from Mike’s and Dean’s trying not to tremble with anticipation over what will happen next. Mike’s hand continues to travel over his skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

Suddenly he feels Mike’s breath on his shoulder, and his lips brush a soft line from shoulder to neck. When Mike places a kiss on his neck, dipping his tongue out to taste Dean’s skin, Dean fails to keep up the pretence of being asleep. “ _Fuck,_ ” he gasps and pushes his ass out against Mike’s crotch. He opens his eyes to see that Nick’s holding onto Mike’s head, controlling him. Nick’s lips are parted. He’s looking down at Dean with wide eyes that seem black in the faint light. Mike’s stopped moving, frozen by Dean’s awakening. Nick closes his mouth and swallows, keeping Mike’s head locked in position. Mike’s dick is half hard, rested between Dean’s asscheeks.

For a beat, time’s paused.

Then Dean turns his head to seek Mike’s lips. If they’re gonna be entitled, then he sure as hell will too. His hand reaches out to tug at Nick to get him closer. It’s all that’s needed to break the freeze frame moment.

Mike’s hand start roaming again, Nick rubs himself against Dean and nips at his upper arm with sharp teeth while Dean gets to taste Mike’s sweet mouth for the first time in ages. He’s dizzy, heady with it. Thrill upon thrill run up his spine, every touch scorching. He flips onto his back to make the angle for the kiss less awkward, and grabs Nick’s erection, stroking it, mentally reminding himself that Nick’s a quick starter and Mike wants a long warm up.

Nick sucks a mark on his neck and kisses his way up to Dean’s cheekbone until his rapid breaths mingle with the kiss and the scent of the both of them blend into one. Dean turns his head, freeing himself from Mike’s lips just to seek Nick’s. 

Mike whimpers.

Nick’s not as sweet. He claims with mouth and tongue, demands, where Mike’s explorative and teasing. 

Mike tweaks one of Dean’s nipples and Dean’s hip buck. “So sensitive,” Mike mumbles, kissing his collarbone. Dean makes a helpless noise, unable to do anything else while Nick fuck’s his mouth with his tongue. He pushes his head backwards into his pillow to back out of Nick’s kiss enough to say “K’ss’m.” (You try talk with someone else’s tongue in your mouth!) 

Nick pulls back and looks at his brother, eyes burning. He compresses his lips into a determined line and reaches out to grab Mike by the hair. “Come here,” he commands.

Mike leans in, eyes wide, almost afraid, tilting his head, then closes his eyes and parts his lips for Nick to lay claim.

Dean’s head might explode. How the hell could he have thought this was fucked up? This is fucking _life_. Seeing the brothers kiss, hungrily, fucking starved for it, right in front of his eyes. “Fuck, you’re so hot. Keep that up. I’m gonna―”

He pulls himself downward, out of the middle, flops himself over Mike and reaches for the lube in the nightstand drawer. He pushes at Mike’s back to get him closer to Nick. They’re still fucking shy about touching each other and Mike’s fucking clothed. Dean just fucking wants them to― No. He just fucking **wants** , period.

Nick, however, isn’t quite up for that. When Mike’s hand wanders over to stroke his scarred side, Nick slaps his hand away, grabs his wrist and twists it behind Mike’s back, all without stop kissing him.

Mavis jumps down from the bed and trots away, but none of them pays the dog any attention.

Dean drops the lube on the bed beside them, grabs the hem of Mike’s boxers and pulls them off. Mike’s rock hard and leaking ridiculous amounts of precome. “Aw, fuck. Will you look at that? Didn’t I tell ya, babe? He’s leaking like a pussy,” he coos, not paying attention to if either of the two of them listens. Then he bends down and sucks the tip into his mouth, grabbing Nick’s cock at the same time.

Mike bucks and whines into Nick’s mouth, unable to do much more with his arm locked behind his back in Nick’s grip. He tastes so fucking good. Mike’s taste is less distinct and slightly sweeter than Nick’s. Just because he can, he pops off to suck Nick’s dick into his mouth instead. Much more salty, not leaking as much, but he’s equally hard.

Dean goes back and forth between the two of them, jerking off one while sucking off the other greedily. Mike and Nick make out, whispering quietly between kisses. Dean’s too swept up in what he’s doing to hear what they say. He keeps that up until a hand twists in his hair and pulls him up, and there’s Nick hauling him to lie on top of his stomach, licking into his mouth as if to get the taste of his brother.

“Luci, please,” Mike pleads from the sideline. 

Dean has no idea for what he’s asking for, but Nick has. He breaks the kiss to turn his head to growl “Do it,” to Mike before grabbing a hold of Dean’s ass cheeks, pulling them apart. 

_Holy shit._

Mike pulls away, grabs the lube, uncaps it. He moves to stand on his knees between their legs. Dean can’t see him. He’s sweating, breathing rough, flat against Nick’s heaving chest. Mike’s hand comes to smear lube on his hole. Dean can feel that he’s warmed it up in his hands before applying it. A finger breaches him. “Skip that, just push in slowly,” Nick commands. When Mike hesitates Nick hisses “ _Now_ , jackass.”

Dean bends his head in to try to hide laughter in the bend of Nick’s neck. If it had been him telling Mike that, Mike would just have made the prepping extra long. Now Mike obeys, slicking himself with lube, lines himself up and starts pushing in.

Dean relaxes as much as he can. It burns on the right side of good. Mike takes longer than Nick would, giving Dean more time to adjust. He bottoms out and lays himself flat over Dean’s back, kissing the mark on his neck that Nick sucked earlier. Nick lets go of Dean’s ass to hug them both. Dean thinks he could die happy like this. You can’t get any closer than this.

“If you come inside of him, I’ll fucking kill you,” Nick threatens Mike, then pulls his head to the side so he can kiss him over Dean’s shoulder.

Dean bursts out laughing. The turf war clearly isn’t over quite yet…

* * *

He wakes up from Mike stirring by his side. The wonderful warmth of his body spooning Dean is traded for cold morning air. “What time’s it?” Dean asks and turns his head to where Mike’s picking up his clothes from the floor. Nick’s snoring softly, back slotted into Dean’s front.

“6 AM.”

“Where are you goin’?”

“Out for a run. I’m taking Mavis with me, if that’s okay?”

“‘T’s fine, but can’t you stay for a bit?”

Mike gives him a warm but regretful smile. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. Our kid brothers will start waking up any minute.”

Dean grumbles, dissatisfied. “Doubt they’d care, but whatever,” he mutters and burrows his head into Nick’s hair, closing his eyes again.

* * *


	95. Interrupting Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title based on the interrupting cow joke. For those unfamiliar with the joke, [it's explained here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3TUHb0VQkJU).

* * *

# Interrupting Cas

“Cas? Can I talk to you for a minute?” Dean leans against the doorpost of Cas’ bedroom, arms and ankles crossed, the fingers on one hand tapping against his bicep.

Cas’ eyes flick in his direction for a beat before he goes on undressing for the night. “Go ahead.” He’s tense, which might mean that he knows what’s coming. 

_Fucking good._

“So… You like pain? Because you’re fucking cruising for it,” Dean states.

“Why, whatever do you mean?” Cas asks innocently and sheds his shirt. Which is fucking cheating because Cas is eye-candy and Dean will never admit to anyone that he occasionally ogles the youngest Williams brother shamelessly when he thinks nobody can bust him for it. He’s just looking, alright?

Dean talks while Cas drops his pants and removes his socks. “Don’t play games with me, you cockblocking cunt. You know _exactly_ what you’ve been doing for the past days. So let me paint you a picture. I love your older brothers, they love me, and whelp, they love each other too. There’s potential for something awesome happening there and you, you dickhead, are determined to stop it. Tell me―” _Aaaaand he’s naked. Great. Not distracting at all. Bet the conniving little fucker is doing this on purpose._ “―exactly what you’re thinking. Do you _want_ them to keep fighting?” The tension Cas created in the days since Mike slept with them, threatened to shatter the new and fragile truce between Nick and Mike. And who’d have thought they could be like fire and gasoline even when they were friends again? Arguments could flare up for absolutely no reason in no time what so ever.

Naked as the day he was born Cas takes a deep breath then walks up to Dean. “Of course I don’t want them to fight, Dean.” Cas puts his hands on Dean’s biceps, giving them a squeeze, and looks up at him with big, blue, earnest eyes. Cas can make puppy eyes to rival Sammy’s.

_Perfect,_ Dean thinks sarcastically. _Now he’s touching me too. Watch it, Cas. I know you’re trying to manipulate me. Distracting me ain’t gonna work. Even with those assets._

Dean’s eyes travel downward soaking in what he sees while keeping his face hard and cold. Some things are worth committing to memory. He looks up again, feigning being unimpressed. “You know what? I thought you of all people would understand the fucking concept of ‘love is love’. The fuck is your problem, Cas? Be fucking honest because we’re gonna resolve that problem or I’m gonna fucking resolve _you_. So talk. And you can drop the act. Those puppy blues might fool Nick into thinking you're innocent, but they ain’t fooling me.”

Cas holds his puppy-eyed pose for five more seconds, then shifts with a grunt, turning grumpy and perturbed, revealing that it was, in fact, an act. He lets go of Dean, walks over to the bed and takes a pair of sleeping pants off the bed. He shimmies into them and turns towards Dean, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Very well. My brothers have started to act anything but appropriate lately. This morning Mikey teasingly dragged his teeth against Luci’s neck during their morning coffee routine. Yesterday Mikey demanded we stop the car on the way from the office so he could buy flowers for the both of you. I caught Luci cupping Mikey’s butt cheek as he passed him by, and Mikey caressing Luci’s thigh as they went over what to order for dinner. Their complete lack of discretion is aggravating and disconcerting.”

“Are you really that bothered by them being more than brothers to each other?” Gabe shows no inclination of being bothered.

Cas lips twist petulantly. “No. It has never bothered me. Why should it? But do you understand what consequences it might have if they’re caught?”

_Has never…?_

“Yeah. All of you would be accused of the same thing and you’d become pariahs in the media for a while, business would go down the drain and partnerships broken. You’d lose billions.”

Cas bristles. His eyes widen under a scowl, lips compress, and Dean swears his eye colour shift from dull blue to radiant ultramarine. He doesn’t raise his voice but his tone becomes sharp and clipped, pausing at short intervals for emphasizing. “Then how do you fail to _see_ , why they must be forced into discretion? When they’re in their echo chamber they heed no advice, and listen to, _no_ reason. Believe me, I've tried all methods over the years. _Nothing_ , works. They feed into their own little loop of self-confirmation and, _no one_ , can break it. The only way I know how to influence them into a reasonable behaviour, is embarrassing them, and limit their chances of committing transgressions. I don’t understand what gave them the _idea_ , that they could disregard secrecy, just because father's out of the way? They've been handling it just fine for _decades_.”

Dean rubs a hand over his face, counting to ten. He's not sure whether to laugh hysterically or cry. “Sweetheart, come here,” he says, head tilted towards the floor, massaging the bridge of his nose and praying for patience from a God he doesn’t believe in. In the days since they slept together, Mike had started to court both Dean and Nick. The roses were a big part of that. From when they walked into their bedroom to find two different bouquets, tailored to convey personal messages to the both of them, to roses showing up here and there, mostly for Nick, always with different meanings. To Dean they were just fucking flowers, but Nick interpreted them for Dean whether he got them or Dean did, and it’s a fucking science. Colour, type, number. There was also blatant flirting going on, and Nick had completely stopped ‘guarding his territory’ concerning Dean. It was fucking _in the bag_ \- or would be if Cas didn’t get in the way all the time. He never left Nick and Mike alone if he could help it, always sat beside one of them while watching TV, and he stared without saying shit. Just stared any time the two of them got too flirty or handsy, until they’d flit away from each other, flustered and uncomfortable. He’d stay with them until either Nick or Mike gave up and went to bed alone. 

But Cas behaviour makes sense now. Of course he’d be the one who looks at the big picture like his dad. Fucking figures.

Cas scoffs, hearing the endearment for the patronising insult it is meant as, but walks up to Dean nevertheless. 

“Look. Let’s get this straight. They’ve never been discreet because there’s never been anything to be discreet about until now. This shit is fucking new to them, Cas.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dean. I’ve grown up with them and I’m far from blind. They’ve bee―” 

Dean presses two fingers against Cas’ lips to shut him up. “Close those delectable lips of yours and fucking listen. Whatever you _think_ has been going on before, hasn’t.” Cas doesn’t look convinced. “They got to third base once and your old man promptly disowned Nick to separate them. Before that, _nothing happened_. Trust me. I’ve talked to them, Cas. They’ve both said the same thing. They didn’t realise what you and Gabe saw plain as day, until they were in their fucking thirties. They’re dumb like that, okay? But this is going down, and you’re gonna let it. You need to be okay with it cuz they’ll need you at their backs. And _I’m_ gonna make sure they’re discreet in public.”

“How?” Dean leans forward and whispers in his Cas’ ear. When he leans back again Castiel’s ire is gone. He grins one of his gummy grins that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “You know, that might actually work,” he concedes.

“Yeah, it will. I’m sure of it,” Dean says with a smirk. He fucking hopes it will. It relies on them wanting him as much as they want each other. But if they do, it’ll work…

* * *


	96. Tick Tock

* * *

# Tick Tock

“Mikey?”

Mike turns around to look at Cas from his position beside Nick by the coffee maker.

“I need to have some modifications done to the bathroom in your quarters. That might take a few days. Would you mind sharing sleeping arrangements with Luci and Dean during that time?” Cas drones from where he’s huddled over his cup of morning coffee.

Mike blinks in confusion and turns his head to meet Nick’s equally perplexed gaze. Both of them twist halfway so they can look at Dean, who nods encouragingly, then they turn their heads to look at each other. They move so ridiculously synchronized that Dean fights not to laugh. “Uh, yes. Sure. No problem,” Mike answers.

“Good. That’s settled then,” Cas states. Once Mike and Nick have turned their backs again he gives Dean a cheeky and wildly exaggerated wink. Dean has to bite his lip not to giggle. 

Cas is a man of his word like the rest of them. He’s agreed to not interfere. That he now helps speed things along, is a pleasant surprise. What Dean needs is an opportunity to establish the ground rule that will keep Mike and Nick discreet from the get-go. But it needs timing and dramatic effect. If Dean’s learned anything these last four years it’s that they don’t take things seriously unless it’s shouted with a megaphone. Metaphorically speaking.

* * *

Cas keeps himself away. When they watch a movie that night he sits in an armchair, leaving his big brothers to cuddle up on either side of Dean, and he ignores that Nick’s arm rests around the shoulders of both of them.

Mike moves his stuff to their room and things become easy.

When they’re in bed all three of them it gets hot and heavy rather fast, and once again Dean gets to wake up like a middle spoon, pleasantly sore from the brothers playing tag team.

It’s another day where Cas has requested help from Nick at the office. Dean follows Gabe to a hotel to help him spread some information by chatting up a lady and dropping juicy gossip. It’s a double edged con. Partly to make the lady spread false information through gossip, partly to create dissent by making sure the spouse sees the lady flirt back with Dean. It’s a fun little game that will benefit the Williams family. Gabe calls him the perfect multi-gender honey trap. Dean can live with that.

When he comes home he hears a fight going on. It’s the first time he’s heard it be physical. He hurries in the direction of the sound but stops and hides when he hears that the fight is about him.

“...do it all over again?!” There’s the unmistakable sound of a slap. “He's fucking _sensitive_ , you moron! That's the kind of shit we might lose him to! I won't let you fuck this up!”

“It was just a pussy! She meant nothing and I didn’t _do_ anything!”

“Not by _our_ standards, dickhead! Did you do this to him while you were together?”

“No! But he’s not _mine_ now, is he?”

“Not with _that_ attitude, fuckface. The fuck do you think is going on here, Mikey? You think this is just a game? I might have forgiven you, but if you fuck this up for us you're a dead man! He's not like us, asshat. He makes no difference between a pussy and a pussy. Believe me. I made that mistake and nearly lost him to some giant of a man when I turned my back for a sec.” The angry shouting switches to a more urgent, serious tone. “Michael, listen. There are no warnings with him. You fuck up and he'll creep, then one day be gone and you might have to backtrack months to figure out _where_ you misstepped. He measures his value in our mistakes. To him a BJ under the conference table from the office slut doesn’t equal the same as getting a massage from the company masseuse.”

_Woah! No, he didn’t!_

Dean’s gut twists sourly, but he keeps on listening. 

“You fucking heard him,” Nick goes on. “We want to own him, we need to earn him all over again every day, or someone will come along to whisper ‘I _see_ you’ in his ear and he'll be gone. Fucking understand that that's why I had to high five you with a chair.”

_What?_

Dean peeks around the corner to see Nick pressing Mike against the wall by his collar. Both look ruffled, clothes a disarray. Nick’s got a bruise on his cheekbone and Mike’s bleeding from his nose and sports a red handprint on his cheek. To Dean’s surprise, Nick also has four scratch marks on his neck. This hadn’t been a one-sided fight. And not too far away from where they stand a table has been overturned and a chair lies splintered.

“Mikey. As fucked up as I think it is, in my eyes we’re a trio now, and I think I speak for Dean too when I say that. So either you're in or you're out.”

“You don’t just view me as a side dish?”

He’s barely spoken the words before he doubles over with an ‘ _Ouff!_ ’ at the same time as Nick angrily snaps “No!” Ticked off all over again by the question.

Nick’s hit was too fast for Dean to see. But Mike unfolds forward and tackles Nick at the hip, pushing away from the wall with his feet, flinging the both of them to the floor. Dean winces from the way Nick’s skull fucking bounces on the floor when he lands on his back with Mike on top. He swings and hits Mike in the face with an open palm, they roll around on the floor, wrestling for the top position, trying to hit each other, but Dean can see that as pissed off as Nick looks, he’s holding back. Mike’s nose bleeds all over the place, the floor, their clothes, their faces. Dean hadn’t expected Mike to fight back. He wonders why. He remembers the way Mike cowered when he himself had been about to hit him.

“For your sake I hope you speak their language.”

Dean startles, heart jumping in fright, from Cas’ voice coming from just behind his shoulder. He spins around to face the youngest brother. “Christ, Cas! Wear a bell or something,” he hisses.

Cas chuckles pleasantly. “Pardon me. I assumed you were aware of my presence. This is, by the way, why I believed them to always have been lovers.” He gestures vaguely at the doorway from where the sounds of the scuffle comes. “Granted, it didn't use to end with intercourse in the middle of a common room, but I always assumed that they took it somewhere private after the… let's call it foreplay.”

“You think it will end in…?” Dean starts to ask, but stops, noting that it's gone quiet. He peeks around the corner to find Mike on top, kissing his brother, lying between Nick’s legs, both trying to get each other's pants down while rutting against each other, making it next to impossible. 

“Like I said, I hope you speak their language,” Cas states again with dry amusement.

“Um. Yeah. I guess I d―” Dean turns back, but Cas is gone. “ _Sonnova_ ―!”

_These fuckers move like fucking ghosts!_

In the common room, there’s a popping sound and a crash. Dean peeks around the corner to find that Nick’s ripped Mike’s shirt open, making buttons fly everywhere. They’ve rolled around so he’s on top, nudged a small table and toppled a plant pot to crash to the floor. They’ve also made good leeway in the un-pantifying department, pants bunched around their knees.

It’s hot. It would be mesmerizing if his head hadn’t been spinning with what he’s heard. He withdraws to try to make sense of things.

* * *

One long walk with Mave later, he’s lying on their bed with his headphones on, smoking with an ashtray on his belly. No closer to getting a grip on his emotions. Mavis is nowhere to be seen. He roams the house freely and runs up and down the three flights as he pleases during daytime. When Meg’s at home he knows the dog often pays her visits even if Dean’s own interaction with the sly and sarcastic woman is limited. Apparently Balt has three dogs that she’ll pamper like she’s their private groomer or something. They, just like Balt, don’t live here at the moment, but her services have been extended to Mave. Despite the dog smelling like some fruity shampoo nowadays, Dean’s grateful if only for the nail trimming. 

He’s got a growing ball of anxiety in his stomach. Thoughts of whether Mike had cheated or not had triggered other dark trains of thoughts. The look in Isobel’s eyes when he stabbed her, his mother’s face hitting the windshield, the air strike that brought his career to an end, Sam, Marlon having 17 days left to live. _Tick, tock, tick, tock._

Marlon.

Dean sticks his hand into one of the many pockets of his combat pants and strokes the cold surface of the diamond, wishing his thoughts were as cool and cold as the stone. That he was as sharp as Marlon thought he was.

He wishes he was drunk. He wishes he was high. He wishes he’d never vowed to never drink to escape reality again.

Somebody opens the bedroom room and enters. Dean’s eyes flick in the direction, but he doesn’t move.

It’s Michael. He’s showered and changed into new clothes. There’s no visible trace of the fight a couple of hours ago, although he’s probably pretty bruised under the shirt. He looks like a fucking model, dark locks perfectly in order, shirt and jeans complimenting his body, watch, rings, necklace, and belt showing off both a sense of style and a fat purse. He smiles and Dean feels fucking naive to have trusted that this time would be different.

Mike approaches the bed, smile faltering when Dean doesn’t return it. He says something Dean can’t hear over the music. For a moment Dean considers ignoring him, but then again, Mike doesn’t know he’s seen the fight. He’s not in the mood for explaining himself. He removes his headphones and pauses the music. “Hey, babe,” he says neutrally. 

Mike smiles wider again. “Hey. I need to talk to you. About something important.”

Dean takes a drag on his cigarette and taps ashes off in the ashtray. “Ain’t nobody here to stop you.”

Mike sits down beside his hip. “Luci and I had a, uh, talk.”

_Is that what they call it?_ Dean withholds a snort.

Mike continues. “And… it seems we have had a different view of the nature of our relationship.”

“Okay?”

“It’s all my fault. I've been so wrapped up in feeling guilty that I couldn't quite believe you could _actually_ forgive me. I guess I wanted it too much to believe I could have it, have _you_ , and… I fucked up.”

“Uh-huh?” Dean keeps his face and voice neutral, but the lump in his belly is starting to twist into nervousness of hope instead. Hope that Mike will actually tell the truth.

“Are you considering us boyfriends? Despite being married to Luci?” Mike asks, looking him straight in the eyes.

“Uh-huh. I _did_ , yeah. What did you think?” Dean replies and kills his cig, moving the ashtray to the nightstand. He put extra stress on the word ‘did’ to underline its past tense. He spots movement in the little slit left by the not quite closed door, a shadow shifting - somebody listening in. It _could_ be Cas or Gabe. But Dean thinks it’s Nick.

Mike runs his tongue over his teeth underneath closed lips. Isobel’s boyfriend is incarcerated for a murder he didn’t commit. Marlon has 17 days left to live. No feeling can compete with the way Dean’s heart is too big for his chest when he’s trapped between two naked, problematic brothers that profess to love him. The highs are higher than the lows are low. Sam doesn’t want him in his life. _Tick, tock, tick, tock._

“I thought you just allowed me to play with you,” Mike says after a beat. “A novelty in your sex life to spice things up. A boon that could be revoked at any moment.”

“Nice constructed excuse for boning the office whore.”

Mike’s eyes widen. “I didn’t―”

“No? Just a BJ? Well, that obviously changes _everything_ ,” Dean interrupts him sarcastically.

Mike’s cheeks colours and he averts his eyes. He’s got the decency to look both ashamed and regretful. “How did you know?”

“I’ll always _know_ , Mike. You fuck up, you’ll be caught out there.” Dean sits up. “The problem is, you still think you own me the same way you own property―”

“No. I know you can’t own another human being. It’s not―”

“Shut up. You _can_. But here’s the catch, and I’m gonna sound really fucking philosophical explaining this so you can understand―when you own something, it owns you back.” Mike’s listening attentively, which is good, so Dean goes on. “If you own a house, you’re locked to the place it’s located. You can solve that by buying another house. You own a chair it’s by default where you sit, which means it owns you too, to an extent. But same as the house, you can have many chairs, and those chairs won’t revoke ownership of themselves just because you sit on other chairs when they’re not around. But you can bet your fucking ass that a person will. _I_ will. I don’t actually mind y’all being possessive and territorial about me. Hell, I like it. It shows that you get that if someone comes along and treats me with the fucking respect I deserve, I might leave. But then y’all go and act as if the _only_ threat comes from other people, and that’s when y’all piss me off.” Dean raises his voice. “I hope you’re listening really fucking carefully now, because divorce papers can be served on grey fucking papers, just as quickly as the title of boyfriend can be revoked,” he hedges. 

It’s silent for a beat, then the door opens fully and Nick steps into the room with the sullen expression of someone who’s just been busted. He closes the door and leans against it, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Good. Okay so it’s like this. I don’t share well. I’m a one man’s man, expecting nothing but the same in return. But then you came along and fucked that up for me. So. Apparently, I can be a two men’s man. But I still expect the same from y’all. I don’t know how y’all reason.” He looks at Mike. “Nick here thought he could just ditch me for a night to have a threesome with two women. Like that was something natural. And here you are, thinking getting a BJ from a random woman is fucking fine. It’s fucking _not_ , okay? You gave away something that was fucking _mine_. And if it isn’t, I don’t want it,” he lies. “This goes for both of y’all. I get to decide who gets to touch you both. Not you, _I_. You get that?”

He looks at the both of them, waiting until he gets an affirmative. “Good. That brings us to the two of you.” This was not how he’d planned to execute it when he told Cas his plan. Due to the bad timing, he's pretty sure he’ll have to repeat the point he's about to make in the same manner he'd originally planned for it to stick in their heads. But it required that they stepped out of line so he could have a dramatic reaction to it. Though, he does speak their language. They understand greed and possessiveness. “Like I said, I don’t share well. But for some reason, I don’t get jealous of you two together. It’s fucking hot. That it’s forbidden and thought of as dirty just makes it hotter. I consider that mine too. Ain’t willing to share that with fucking anyone. I mean, Gabe and Cas know already so I don’t care what they see. But the rest of the world? Fuck no. If we’re all together, like, _together_ together, then nobody gets to know that this is anything but two brothers sharing one boyfriend. As far as anyone may know, you take turns sleeping in my bed and dating me. You’re nothing but brothers to each other. Fucking nobody gets to catch you holding hands or groping each other. That’s my privilege. That’s my requirement for this to be a relationship trio. If you can’t agree to that, I'm out.”

“You'll walk out on both of us, then?” Nick wants to know. 

“You'd both have overstepped then, wouldn't you?” Dean doesn’t think he could leave, even if they kept their nonchalant view, taking him for granted. So his threats require that their fear of losing him is great enough for him not to have to show his cards and reveal his bluff.

“Fair enough.”

“What if we were in private and did something, but you weren’t there?” Mike asks way too straight faced for someone who’s just done exactly that.

“Got no problem with it. Which leads me to another demand. You’ve got rules of what you’re okay with each other doing with me, you settle that between yerselves. Cuz as it is, I’ve been tiptoeing, unsure of what’s okay and not, and I fucking hate it. We do this, I wanna act as freely as I would if I was dating y’all solo. I don’t want to guard myself.” He looks at Nick. “You walk in on Mike buried inside of me, you’re either okay with it, set up the limits with Mike in advance, or you tell me straight up right now your dos and don’ts. Ain’t wanna keep guessing.”

“He knows where I draw the line already. I’ve got no further objections,” Nick answers offhandedly.

Dean’s a bit perturbed by not being filled in. Speaking of filled in… “Let me guess, he can’t come inside of me?”

“Yes,” Mike answers glumly.

Nick smirks. “Why, honey. I need to make sure the baby’s all mine,” he drawls in an exaggerated lazy southern accent.

Mike snorts and sends him a dark glare. Dean smiles in amusement. He thinks there’s a hell of a lot more to it than the breeding kink he shares with his husband, but whatever. 

“Yeah, okay. So for us to be a trio, y’all need to speak up if you’re having problems with something or are unsure. Y’all need to be okay with me answering ‘yes’ no matter which one of you asks ‘Are you mine’. Got it?”

Both brothers stir, shifting and exchanging looks. Dean can see small shifts in their expressions, but he can’t fucking read them. It’s like they’re having a telepathic conversation or some shit. They look back at him at the same time.

“Yes.”  
“Yes.”

“So could you repeat my rules?”

“Guard you as if we had the right to ownership, but treat you as if we don’t,” Mike answers, summing it up quite beautifully.

“Tolerate you and Mikey having the same kind of relationship as you and I, even when I’m not around,” Nick states.

“No sexual or romantic interaction between Luci and I, unless we’re in private,” Mike recites.

“With the exception for terrorizing our kid brothers fragile senses,” Nick says with an almost mean smirk. “They can see whatever there is to see.”

Dean swallows a laugh. He reminds himself to be serious. He wonders when _he_ became the most mature one when it came to having relationships. But then again, neither Mike nor Nick ever really had a serious, long-term relationship before him, had they? Mike had sabotaged Nick’s chances for it, and the only people they’d been fully committed to, were their siblings, which is a whole different type of relationship altogether. Maybe their stupid fucking fidelity mistakes aren’t such a mystery, after all. Not that it changes how Dean feels about it.

“Don’t grant anyone else the right to touch us,” Mike ticks off.

“Unless it’s pre-negotiated,” Nick adds. Mike turns to look at Nick with a bemused frown. “We allow each other to do things that would count as cheating if it serves a purpose. I got to seduce Sam so Dean could knock up his wife, for an instance,” Nick explains.

Mike’s eyes go round, eyebrows climbing up high as they can go, his whole body silently yelling ‘ **What???** ’ He turns his head towards Dean for confirmation.

“Yup. I ain’t okay with it, in here,” he taps his chest, “but if it’s necessary I can make exceptions, and I won’t punish y’all if we had agreed and y’all keep to the boundaries set.”

“Huh.” Mike looks quite baffled.

“And _don’t_ call me ‘it’ in the future,” Dean snipes, remembering the brothers’ fight on the plane.

Nick sniggers. “What do you say, Mikey? Should we listen to it? I don’t know. It’s cute when it’s pissed off.”

_Great_. 

Dean groans and falls back on the bed. That was a mistake. Now Nick will forever refer to him as it just to tease him. It’s not the same as talking over his head while discussing who has the right to him, but still. 

“Hey, Dean? Does that mean you’ve forgiven my mistake today?”

Dean promptly sits up again, scowling. “Michael Matthew Williams,” he says. Nick utters a quiet ‘uh-oh’ and bends his head to hide the malicious glee Dean nevertheless has the time to spot. “You and I are having **serious** fucking trust issues,” Dean scolds, poking Mike in the chest with a finger. “You lied to me all through our relationship, and you cheat the first fucking chance you get, starting anew? Yeah, no. Like hell you’re off the hook about it. The only reason you ain’t getting the boot straight outta here, is cuz you came here to fess up and fucking talk about it. I don’t require much. Only loyalty, honesty, and respect. It ain’t that fucking hard, okay?” (Okay, those things can be damned hard, but he’s not going to allude to that.) “I ain’t all that sure I want us to be a trio, if I can’t fucking trust you like I trust Nick.”

Nick is hiding a snicker, clearly enjoying seeing his big brother getting chewed off. It reminds Dean of Sam so much it hurts. Hell, even though those memories are bad memories, he’s yearning for them. Being surrounded by brothers teasing each other, supporting each other, and fighting, has made that longing almost acute. Just like that, he knows what he has to do, to pretend to punish Mike.

“I need to get away from y’all to think all this over,” he lies. Nick snaps to attention. “Tomorrow I fly back to the States for a while, and neither of y’all will be coming with. While I’m away, you two keep your fucking hands _off_ each other―”

Nick scrunches up his face in displeasure. “Why am I being punished when Mikey did wrong?” he whines.

“You’re not. You wanted to go pony riding with pooches in the sand, so you will. Mike will stay here and take care of Mave like the good boyfriend he says he wants to be. I’ll be gone for a week, tops. When I get back I’ll give you my verdict to if I think I could overcome my trust issues towards Mike.”

Nick hums, dropping his displeasure. “So what are you going to do when you’re in the States that you can’t do while you’re here?”

“Talk to Sam again. If he’s up for it, I’ll stick around and listen to what he’s got to say this time. You two have any protests to this?”

“No.”  
“No.”

“And, Mike, while we’re gone, you fucking follow the rules I set up for us as a trio, even if you don’t know what the outcome will be. I stabbed an innocent girl five times in the chest and held her gaze while she died, for _you_. You better fucking keep your dick in your pants for a week for me, or I’ll fucking cut it off. You hear?”

Mike swears he’s on board with everything. Isobel had brown eyes. Cas has body doubles. Sam might still refuse to talk with him. And Marlon has 17 days left to live.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock._

* * *


	97. Turning Traitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say how much I love my betas? I'm so, so happy I've got those two boogers in my life. ^^' Thank you to the both of them! Friday I got bad news, about my dad being diagnosed with leukemia, and they've been ultra supportive and wonderful, helping to cheer me up. (And just writing about it I get all sappy about them, okay?) I'll be going out of town to visit my dad next week, and I'm not sure if I'll be able to update during that time. So if this fic is silent for a week, you know why.
> 
> I'm gonna pimp out [Family Ties](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9290795/chapters/21056393), a Samifer fic my beta YouCan'tKeepMeDown lets me beta for her and I friggin love it! If you like fucked up boys being fucked up, or not so fucked up boys saying "To hell with it!" and throwing reason overboard and just going with the insane options, then I'm sure you'll love it too. ;)
> 
> Also, this chapter contains gratuitous references to Sherlock BBC, especially season 4. However, in this chapter, they aren't spoilery in any way. [I'm just being a geek](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gENxhew0AGs&t=197s).
> 
> Oh, and, I'm sorry for not answering your comments as I should do. I'm _really_ grateful for you leaving them! It keeps my confidence and motivation to keep writing up. We're getting closer to the end now. If you've got triggers that you see will appear in the added tags, contact me on [Tumblr](http://coplins.tumblr.com/) and I'll give out the spoilers necessary for you to prepare yourself, alternatively, I can tell you what you'll need to know to skip ahead. Although, so much is playing out that you'll miss some undercurrents and... Well. You know how it is if you skip ten or twenty pages in a book. :P 
> 
> Anyways... Marlon!!! :D

* * *

# Turning Traitor

As with everything else with the Williams boys, as soon as a decision was made, it was efficiently executed. Nick called the sheik that had invited him, jabbing away in fluent Arabic. He really was fluent in it. Dean might not understand much (he got some words here and there), but Nick spoke as fast as any native speaker Dean’s ever heard. When he got off the phone it was settled. He’d be leaving on a flight at 4 AM the same night. Dean’s flight leaves 6:40 AM. It would be nearly midnight when he lands due to the time difference. Charlie’s still in Long Island and will meet him at the airport, so that’s something. Gabe’s renting a decent apartment for him. Nick wonders if he’s still allowed to talk to Mike while Dean’s away and Dean thinks he’s an idiot. (“Yes. The answer is yes, babe. Hell, y’all can have phone sex for all I care. Just stay away until I get back.”) Mike solved the sleeping arrangement question by simply not sleeping. Instead he made arrangements for a series of video conference meetings with people in fitting places around the globe. If they had slept, Dean still would have wanted them to sleep together, making the ruse of punishment and an uncertain outcome less convincing.

Cas drives him to the airport. 

“Hey, Cas? I know you’re obligated to be loyal to your brothers, but I’m wanna ask a favour anyway?” Dean asks as they pull into the airport parking.

“How can I be of help?”

“Could you tell me if Mike cheats on me again?”

Cas parks the car, cuts the engine and twists his body to face Dean, resting one wrist over the steering wheel and the other arm behind Dean’s back rest. There’s a sly glint in his eyes―seeming bluer than usual―and his lip quirk almost imperceivable. “I’d be very to happy to report any of my brothers' transgressions to you, Dean,” he says almost flirtily, voice nearly a low purr that tingles around Dean’s spine.

Dean’s about to laugh it off, because, _hello_ , these brothers don’t go stabbing each other in the back, and he might have asked, but it’s not like he’d expect the truth, and… 

He stops himself. He considers himself fairly good at reading people. There’s something familiar about the way Cas is looking at him right now. “Cas… are you flirting with me?” he hedges.

Cas chuckles lowly. “Do you think me suicidal? No. If I’d be making a pass at you, we’d already be utilizing the backseat for upbeat recreational purposes. Either that, or you’d be regretting your life’s choices, wondering how much trouble getting a divorce would be, and why you didn’t pick the right brother from the start.” His lips quirk into a very distinguishable smirk this time. His gaze never leaves Dean’s. It’s arrogant, playful, challenging.

Dean laughs nervously. “Sonnova bitch, you _are_.”

There’s an impish twinkle in Cas’ eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Or if I harboured such dreams, I would not let you know.” _Yeah, like_ that _isn’t a dubious answer._ “But I would, however, tell you if my older brothers did not hold themselves to the standards you’ve demanded. My excuse is grounded in the matter you and I had a disagreement on. Telling you the truth will benefit us all.”

Dean chuckles, unconvinced. Cas just has a full-of-shit aura right now. He’s always fairly hard to read. But Dean deems him to be 100% playfully flirty. “Yeah, right. Are you trying to make me relax before the flight?”

“Is it working?”

“Nu-uh.” Well. It is. But it’ll be short term relief.

“In that case, maybe these will?” Cas tones down the challenge and playfulness in his expression, takes two small packets and a paper from inside his suit jacket and gives them to Dean. It’s medicine packs for blister strips, both are prescribed to Dean. One he recognises as tranquillizers, and the other… he reads the instructions on the label - sleeping pills. The paper is a document declaring he needs them and is exempted to travel with them despite them being classified as narcotics. “Please, do not take them with alcohol. I’d recommend taking one or two of the tranquillizers before boarding. Then wait, and take one sleeping pill after they’ve served breakfast. By my estimation, that would put you to sleep for the most of the duration of the flight.”

“You use this shit too?”

Cas shakes his head, back to his usual self. “It happens that I take a sleeping pill on a long flight, but as a general rule, no.”

“Thanks. ‘Preciate it. Really.”

Cas helps him with his bag and keeps him company until Dean has to pass the gates to the inner parts of the airport. After breakfast on the plane he puts his headphones on, takes a sleeping pill and is out like a light within five minutes, ‘Ain’t No Grave’ by Johnny Cash playing on his iPod. 

Cas is a fucking saint.

* * *

Marlon sucks at golf. He’ll fake being good natured about it to placate his company, but as soon as they turn their backs he’ll glare hatefully at their backs. Dean lowers his binoculars and bites his lower lip. Nick and Marlon share that intense hotness when they look like they want to murder someone. This is the first time he’s seen Marlon display any of the characteristics that he must have had the year he turned into the monster his children had grown so scared of.

His phone rings. It’s Nick. Dean picks up. “Heya, babe. What’s up?”

“Hello, darling. You’ll never guess what I’m doing right now...”

“Riding a wingless pegasus?”

“Okay, so you could guess,” Nick concedes grumpily.

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, well. That _was_ the purpose of your trip.”

“I thought it was to keep Mikey from getting off until you get back.”

“Yeah, that too. But whatever. I miss you.”

“That’s good. Then everything is in order. How was your flight?”

“‘S good. Cas helped me relax. First we made out in the back of his car, then he gave me sleeping pills so I could sleep it off on the plane. Worked like a charm.”

On the other end of the line there’s heavy silence, aside from some wind hitting the speaker.

Dean laughs. “ _Kidding_! Jeezus, Nicky. Not about the sleeping pills though. He did give me those.”

“Joke like that and I might have to kick my little brother’s ass to make sure it stays a joke.”

“Oh, come _on_. You’re not still worried I’ll run off with him or something?”

“Are you going to tease me about it if I say yes?”

“Hell yeah, I will.”

“In that case, no.”

Dean grins and looks through his binoculars again, tracking Marlon, Sullivan, and two other men down the golf course. “I’ll pretend I believe you.”

Nick sniggers. “How generous of you, darling. Have you talked to Sam yet?”

“Dude. I just got here. I’m doing recon, amping up my courage.”

“With other words, stalking.”

“Yup.”

“Good luck to you. And call me later. I need to go. And the next time an offer like this comes up, I’m hog tieing you and taking you with.”

“We’ll see about that. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Once he’s hung up he moves position, trading one shrub for another to get closer to Marlon. Marlon’s got fifteen days left to live.

Marlon turns around and stares right at Dean with a troubled frown. Dean’s heart jumps. There’s no way Marlon can actually see him behind these high bushes. Maybe he’ll be able to see the sun glint on the binocular lenses, but nothing more. Nevertheless, it seems like he’s staring right into Dean’s eyes. It’s fucking eerie.

He lowers the binoculars and Marlon turns into a stick figure in the distance, facial features indistinguishable.

“Heya, papa… did you miss me?” he says quietly at the figure in the distance, his chest aching under his ribcage. Fifteen days. _Tick, tock, tick, tock._

* * *

13 days left to live. Marlon takes Anna shopping. She’s exuberant, carefree and chatty in a way only the youngest, most spoiled little daddy’s girl can be. Marlon waits patiently while Anna tries on clothes, making commentary when she comes out and shows him. She looks happy, spinning around to make the skirt of a gorgeous dress flare. Marlon smiles warmly and says something. She beams at him and gives him a hug. He kisses her temple and Dean’s veins are filled with black, toxic sludge. He’s jealous of Anna and it’s fifty shades of fucked up.

Anna goes back to the changing room and Marlon turns to look out of the shop window with a serious face. Once again it feels like he locks gaze with Dean. It’s impossible. Dean might not be far away, but the coffee shop across the street where he’s sitting, has windows with mirror tinting. You can see out, but not in. It’s fucking creepy.

In the evening Marlon takes all his daughters out for dinner. They chat happily with each other while Marlon mostly leans back quiet, watching them with a smile that turns sad around the edges when they’re not focused on him. Dean’s heart aches.

12 days left to live.

Dean’s made his decision. The amount of trust he puts in Marlon is insane in comparison to the things Marlon has done. Dean closes his eyes and drags the cold surface of the diamond in a soft brush against his lips. Marlon trusted him to be smart, and to care for the family, giving him _juuust_ enough hints to help him solve the mystery. Now he’s going to trust Marlon in the same manner.

He can feel Marlon’s diamond collar around his neck as if it was more than just an imagined thing.

_I’m sorry, Nicky, but I need to do this._

In his mind Nick calls him a traitor and spits in his face, glaring at him with betrayed anger.

In his mind, Marlon stands behind him and whispers ‘ _Well done, son._ ’

He’s a traitor traitor traitor, and it might still all be for naught.

He’s made his decision and now it’s showtime.

* * *

It feels odd, sneaking around here at home―(and when did a huge estate he'd only spent weeks in, turn into the emotional equivalent of ‘Home’?)―dressed up all in black, ski mask and everything. He’s learned the ropes by now. Theatrics is part of it. You’re the same man no matter the clothes, but the dress told people how to react to you - hence the ‘bad guy outfit’. He’s got keys to all the doors. Gabe had provided him and Nick both when they lived here, and Nick had pilfered and copied Marlon’s keys back when he was stalking him to find the keycard. Good times, oddly enough.

Morbid curiosity has him wanting to delay this to go down in the tunnels to see how far Isobel’s corpse has decayed.

He resists the impulse.

Naomi roams the mansion like a vigilant ghost with click-clacking heels in a castle, pretty much the queen in this domain. Dean hopes she doesn’t see him because in this outfit she’ll shoot first and ask questions later.

Once he’s finally made it to Marlon’s wing, his pulse thunders so loudly in his ears he can barely hear a thing, and he has to pause to calm himself down a bit first. He twists the key as slowly as he possibly can, trying to be quiet. His hands are sweaty inside the black leather gloves and his gun feels like it weighs tons. He’s unused to the silencer, and the extra piece at the end wants to drag the whole gun down. Maybe he should have taken one of Cas’ tranquillizers before he came? But no. He needs to be sharp.

He stands by the wall to the side of the door, gun ready, and presses down the door handle incrementally slow. Once it’s open to a small slit he waits before he peeks inside. The room is mostly dark. A couple of fading embers in the fireplace, and a small lamp with an amber shade gives enough light to go by. Nobody’s there.

He slinks inside and closes the door silently.

The door to the bedroom is slightly ajar―enough to see light coming from within, but not enough to actually see inside. There’s music on low volume coming from within. Dean stops to listen.

_What have I become_  
_My sweetest friend_  
_Everyone I know goes away_  
_In the end_  
_And you could have it all_  
_My empire of dirt_  
_I will let you down_  
_I will make you hurt_

‘Hurt’ by Johnny Cash. It seems like a fitting choice.

Dean sneaks along the wall, every sense on high alert. He gets to the door and peeks through the tiny crack by the door’s hinges. He can see Marlon. He’s got a desk by the wall beside the bed, a lot less fancy than anything found in rooms expecting guests. He’s sitting by that desk, back towards the door, writing. It’s past midnight, but he’s still wearing jeans and a light blue button down shirt with rolled up sleeves. Dean holds his gun ready, holding his breath he pushes the door carefully with his other hand, opening it slowly, soundlessly. 

“I was expecting you a lot sooner, Luci,” Marlon says without turning around.

Dean barely keeps from jerking in startlement. He pushes the door fully open and aims his gun at Marlon. “Guess again, papa.”

Marlon sucks in a little breath in surprise and quickly turns around in his chair. When he sees Dean―and more importantly, the gun―he freezes. His eyes widen slightly, lips compress, and colour drains from his face just to fill in with red at the cheeks, that spreads down his throat and disappear below his collarbone, visible where his shirt is open two buttons. _Fear_. Marlon schools his facial expression into neutrality real fucking fast, but he can’t do anything about the way his blood rushes and adrenaline surely pumps. He swallows audibly and sits very still. 

The most fucked up thing about it is that it triggers a protective urge in Dean when he sees Marlon’s fear. Nevermind that it’s he who’s pointing a gun at Marlon’s chest, keeping his features cold underneath the mask. Feelings never made sense anyway. “What’sa matter, daddy? Disappointed to see me?” he coos mockingly.

“Not as such, son. Though, it’s the gun that keeps me from jumping in joy at the sight of you,” Marlon answers dryly with a quirk to his lip. There’s too much fear in his eyes to pull off actual humour. Dean takes another step into the room and Marlon’s fragile cockiness breaks, chest heaving as he starts breathing faster, eyes locked on the gun. “I had hoped I’d get to see Luci one more time before I die. Talk to him one more time. I know in excruciating detail some of the things he did in the army, and I could never imagine anything but he himself coming for me. I didn’t think he’d allow it. I’m sorry, Dean, under normal circumstances I’d be thrilled to see you, but…” Marlon speaks with urgency without sounding like he’s babbling. His eyes are locked on the barrel of the gun as Dean approaches. “...I wish they hadn’t sent you to kill me.”

“Who said they did?”

Marlon’s eyes jump to his. He licks his lips nervously. Dean can _hear_ how dry his mouth is. He can also see how rapidly Marlon’s heart beats in the hollow at the base of his throat. Marlon has started to perspire, skin getting a glossy sheen. “It would seem I’m wrong about a lot of things. I did not take you for a murderer. A killer, yes, but not a murderer.”

The distinction is crystal clear to Dean.

Dean snorts and stops a safe distance away, out of easy grasping reach even for such a large man like Marlon. He lifts the ski mask up, hitching it like a beanie to show his face. That was not part of the plan. “Isobel, the maid that disappeared a few weeks ago. You know who that is?”

“Yes.”

“She walked in on us. We tried bribing her for silence, but she was determined to sell Nick out. She was completely innocent. I stabbed her five times in the chest, holding her gaze while she died. So I’m a murderer alright, papa.”

“Why did you do it?”

Dean scowls at the stupidly obvious question. “Nobody’s gonna take Nicky from me.”

“No. I mean why did you look her in the eyes?”

_Oh._

“I was stealing the most precious thing she had. Something I could never give back. Giving her soul a safe passage to haunt me was the only thing I could offer in return.”

There’s a hint of a sad smile on Marlon’s face. “Will you grant me the same boon?”

Dean wants to throw up. He feels cold all over as his mind provides him with an image of stabbing Marlon in the same fashion. He hopes his face doesn’t betray how close he is to tears. “I told you, Marlon, somebody would have to be sacrificed. It will be you. No play of yours will make it end any different than that. Your sons, all four of them, decided that you’ll die on the 18th. Nick will come to kill you then. He swears he will make it look like an accident, but I have my doubts. And even if he does, accidents can cause painful and prolonged deaths. I’m here to offer you a better option.”

Marlon nods slowly. He looks so defeated. Sadness, fear, grief―all emotions that the mask he wears fails to hide properly. “A swift death, then. I’ll take it. Will you aim for the heart? A bullet through the head would make for an ugly corpse.”

“Not so fast, hot shot. This is a trade. I’ve got questions.”

“Fair enough.” Marlon leans back in his chair, laces his fingers together in his lap, lifting a leg to rest the ankle over his other knee. A relaxed pose by appearance, if you disregard that he’s holding his own hand and building a barricade from the threat. Basic body language. But Dean needs him to focus on every little detail in this conversation. If he doesn’t, this traitor traitor traitor move won’t make a lick of difference and Marlon would join Isobel, mom, Ennis, Benny, Sergeant Barnes, Martyn, and everyone else hounding him in his sleep.

Dean makes his face harder, jerking his gun demandingly. “Sit up straight. Feet on the floor, hands on the armrests.” His voice is so cold he barely recognises it. 

Marlon swiftly obeys. Dean fucking hates the fear in his eyes. He hates the droplet of sweat that runs down from Marlon’s forehead to track his cheek and jawline. He hates how pale Marlon is, and how it makes the red splotches on his cheek stand out. He wants to see the man like he’s supposed to look - powerful, tanned, charming, sly. He lowers the gun and comes closer still, within touching range. It’s stupid, should Marlon get it in his head to attack, but Dean doesn’t think he will. Marlon looks up at him, meeting his gaze now that the gun isn’t pointed at him.

“You know a lot of things about your sons that they don’t know you know. I want you to tell me about it,” Dean bids, voice softer now. One tiny step more and he’d be standing in the V of Marlon’s legs. It’s hard to be cold when you’re this close. He can _smell_ Marlon from here. Faintly, but he can. A day’s worth of work, cologne almost worn off. It’s a pleasant smell. Marlon can probably smell him too. He’s not wearing anything perfumed. He’d even made sure not to use perfumed washing powder or rinse. A whiff of aftershave could reveal his presence by someone passing by when he’s trying to hide. But he’s been hot under his clothes, sweating, and he can smell himself. That scent would be a giveaway too, but it’d require a person to be closer, like Marlon is now.

“What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with what you just brought up. How do you know what Nick did in the army? That shit is classified.”

“Money makes the world go round. I bribed high ups to give me reports on my son. Amongst other things, I got to see videos. Some raids and interrogations were taped. I’ve watched him in action. He’s frighteningly efficient. But it’s when he was given free hands, and I saw him do things that go beyond what’s ordered, that I truly started to doubt the wisdom of protecting him. I still did, though. He’s my son and I’m selfish. As long as he wasn’t a threat to my other children…”

“Gabe and Cas thought Mike and Nick had been fucking since their teens. Did you?”

“No.” Marlon doesn’t even hesitate on the answer.

“You must have known how close they were. Even as adults they slept in the same bed.”

“Yes. But I didn’t think they harboured that kind of feelings towards each other.”

Dean thinks that’s strange. Except… “Because that was normal to you. After your parents died, you and your brother…”

The pained look on Marlon’s face says it all. “We were very close, son. But the idea of crossing that line never occurred to me.”

“If you keep tabs on your sons, how come you didn’t know about me?”

“I keep tabs, but I don’t spy, per se. I trusted Michael to live appropriately. A couple of times a year I had someone check in on him, not to see what he did in private, but to see that he didn’t keep in contact with Lucifer. My agent could have witnessed him and you together and still only report that he hadn’t seen Luci. Full supervision is a punishment for when trust has been broken, not a pre-emptive action. Castiel conspicuously left for Europe, making me monitor him closely for a while to figure out why. After that, I’ve just kept myself ajour with things that could blow up in all of our faces.” Marlon takes a deep breath through his nose, nostrils flaring. Then another one. He’s scenting, Dean realises, inhaling Dean’s sweat, none too discreet.

“Like?” Marlon’s thighs are warm against the outside of his legs. And when the hell did he step closer? Even now the older man’s pull on him is stronger than fucking gravity.

“Like Mikey and Luci’s habits of doing drugs and whoring around. Like Gabe’s increasingly risky crimes. Like Cas’ homosexuality and the orgies he hosts. Like Hester’s risque Instagram photos. Anna’s friendships with the LA clique. Hannah’s cocaine use used to be a problem too, but she stopped as she got older. I monitor all these things to an extent. I’ve tried not to interfere. They’re adults, after all. But if the family is threatened… Our name holds a heavy burden of responsibility, Mr. Williams.” Marlon reaches out behind himself slowly. Dean lifts his gun, pressing the silencer over Marlon’s heart the moment he starts to move. Marlon freezes, eyes widening in acute fear, sucking in a breath, holding it. For a beat time stands still. Dean’s heart rabbits in his chest as he tries to figure out what Marlon’s trying to do. Marlon’s arm’s still halfway outstretched towards something on his desk. It’s not much on it. A paper he’d been writing on, a reservoir pen dripping ink onto it, a decorative cigarette case, the golden lighter Dean stole, and a photo of Marlon’s late wife.

The moment stretches. Marlon swallows audibly. He starts moving again, so, _so_ slowly. His hand is trembling slightly. He grabs the framed photo without looking away from Dean with his ice blue eyes. Carefully he lays the frame down, hiding its photo. Or, come to think of it, hiding his wife from seeing…

When Marlon equally slowly withdraws his arm again Dean lessens the pressure of the gun and Marlon lets out a shuddering breath. “I’ve fantasised about having you trembling under my touch,” Marlon says with a shaky smile. “Ironic, how it ended up the other way around.”

Dean can’t make himself smile at the joke. He barely dares to breathe as Marlon lifts both his slightly shaky hands towards his hips. Marlon’s hands hover, not touching. Dean, almost hypnotized, lifts his gun in slowmotion. He lays its cold metal barrel against the side of Marlon’s throat, watching the small hairs prick, goosebumps erupting as he caresses with the barrel upward towards the jaw. His own breath is warbly, the air static.

Marlon still looks afraid, moves carefully, like he’s being nuzzled by a wild tiger, eyes guarded, tilting his head to the side, yielding for the light pressure of the potentially lethal caress. But his hands closes the distance, grips Dean’s hips firmly, pauses to gauge for a protest, then glides upward under the tight knit black sweater, pulling at the T-shirt underneath to get to the skin. His eyes have gone hungry and so fucking intense it’s turning Dean’s insides to vibrating jelly. 

Everything fucking tingles. Dean’s pants are too tight. Too fucking tight, and Marlon’s hands―soft like Mike’s, big big big like Nick’s, bigger still―aren’t cold by any standards but feel like it because Dean’s hot like a fucking furnace under their touch when they fan out over the planes of his stomach, making his muscles contract and his breath catch in his throat. 

Marlon breaks eye contact, looking at Dean’s belly, feathering his hands upwards in a whisper of touch, turning every cell underneath to live wires. The move exposes Dean’s belly by the time Marlon reaches his chest. Marlon closes his eyes and leans forward until his nose is almost touching Dean’s abs, every exhale of his felt like a physical caress. Dean moves the gun to the back of Marlon’s neck, pushing in an unspoken plea, fucking punch drunk on the charged moment.

Marlon closes his eyes and presses his nose against Dean’s skin, inhaling deeply time after another, tilting his head to lip at the muscles that quiver and spasm underneath.

“You’re making a fucking bold play, papa,” Dean rasps, voice rough and unsteady.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m dead anyway.”

‘ _It’s not cheating if she’s dead…_ ’

Nick’s words echo in his head. Like father, like son. It’s so tempting to give in to the aching want and whimpering wishes twisting every fiber in his body out of place. But if he does, this will not go down as it should. It will end in a duo in flight, struggling to hide from a betrayed lion, instead of a dysfunctional but (hopefully) happy trio that awaits him back in France.

_Just one last kiss. One. Nobody will ever know. I can…_

But it’s never just one, is it? With chemistry like this, one will not be enough. It’ll turn to greed and yearning and need for more more more. He can feel it burning inside already. When that happens, he’ll fail what he set out to do, and there’ll be no ‘ _Well done, son_ ’ in reward because he would have failed, turning traitor to both Nick and Marlon by not following the battle plan.

He steels himself, ignores how his groin aches and his pants tent, puts the gun against Marlon’s forehead and pushes him roughly back in his seat. “ _Stop it_. I’m not done.” How he manages to get his game face back on is a fucking mystery, but he manages. By the renewed fear in Marlon’s eyes, he manages really fucking well.

Marlon swallows, chest heaving in rapid breaths.

Dean leans down so they’re face to face, eyes boring in. Marlon’s pupils are huge. He too has a visible bulge in his pants. Dean’s not the only one caught up in this electrical storm. “Do you know…” he rattles off a couple of questions in rapid fire, feigning anger. Marlon answers with urgency, responding to it and to the gun pressed against his temple as if his life depended on it. 

It _does_ depend on it, and it depends on Marlon being as smart as he believes Dean is.

_Please, papa, be that smart._

“Do you know that Cas has body doubles?” Dean asks, gaze locked with Marlon’s magnetic blue. He moves the gun to press the muzzle over Marlon’s heart.

“No.”

“He’s got two. They look just like him when they put on an act, but completely different when they relax and are themselves. It’s fucking eerie. I talked to one of them, Jimmy, and he told me that when he doesn’t speak, Gabe and Mike have both mistaken him for Cas several times. Are you sure you didn’t know this?”

“No. I had no idea.”

Dean straightens up. “Okay, then. Goodbye, papa.” He makes his face hard and cold, holds Marlon’s gaze, and without preamble, he pulls the trigger.

_CLICK_

Marlon jerks in pure terror, mouth agape.

It takes a beat, two beats, a third, for Marlon’s brain to catch up that no bullet was fired and that he’s still alive and well. A shocked sob-gasp escapes him and he starts to shake. Eyes wide and traumatized, filling up with tears he probably has no control over. He stares at Dean in complete heartbroken confusion. His expression says ‘ _B-b-but **why**?_ ’ as loudly as if he’d said it in words.

“On the 18th this month Marlon Williams dies,” Dean says. He takes an USB memory stick from his pocket and throws it on the desk beside Marlon. “After your death, Michael Williams will come clean to the police and press about what really went down when he disappeared. He’ll tweak the truth enough not to seem like a consenting party. The footage on that USB stick will be released, showing you talking to him and giving him food through the door. Your sons agreed to wait until after your death to clear Nick’s name, in respect for you. They didn’t want you to live through the humiliation. You will not contact the police or try set up any traps for Nick when he comes to get you. If he does not walk scot free out of this, I will be the embodiment of ‘Salao’, not only for you, but for the whole family and business. I’m done losing loved ones. Should you try to run or hide, Nick will hunt you down, and the outcome will be so, so much worse than the original plan. So. On the 18th, Marlon Williams no longer exist. You got all that?”

“Yes.” It comes out weak, wounded, warbly. Tears track down Marlon’s cheeks. Those are tears of pure fright. It hurts inside, to do this to Marlon. Fake executions are fucking cruel, and can break the hardest of men. That’s why he did it, making dying real instead of just a vague concept. He wants Marlon to be so scared of dying that he takes the workaround Dean provided him with. If he can see it, and solve it in time.

“Use your time wisely,” Dean says, taps the side of his nose with his finger, then turns on his heel and stalks out of there.

He hopes Marlon is like the rest of the family―that he’ll listen better, and understand the urgency better, when the dramatics are turned up to the max. He hopes that the shock of the fake execution didn’t have the opposite effect, wiping the memory of the conversation clean instead of enhancing it. He hopes he doesn’t put too much trust in Marlon, trusting him to play along with the framework set. 

And, _fuck_ , he hopes Nick fails to kill him, and that Nick never finds out that Dean turned traitor and warned him. 

Only time will tell. 

It’s over midnight, so Marlon’s got 11 days left to live. 11 days to figure out how to solve the final problem. 

_Tick, tock, tick, tock..._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so fucking protective of Marlon right now, okay? If anyone thinks less of him for being scared out of his wits, for losing control and crying after the trigger's been pulled, you'll have to fight me! He's awesome and strong and wonderful and... *takes a deep breath to calm down* ...and human. He just happens to be this story's bad guy.


	98. An Unexpected Thank You

* * *

# An Unexpected Thank You

He has to at least try to talk to Sam, if only to have an alibi. It should be quick work. ‘Heya, Sammy!’, ‘Go to hell, Dean!’, ‘Byea, Sammy!’ He has to do it to be able to lie truthfully about his visit here. If he doesn’t, he’s afraid the memory of quavering beneath Marlon’s touch will be written all over his face.

Nick might have hit upon something when he told Mike to watch out, or someone would come along and whisper ‘I _see_ you’ in Dean’s ear and he’d be gone. Although, if you ask Dean about it, he’d be in full denial. The Williams family (the male half) were like a fucking drug to Dean. They hit his buttons like a toddler key-smashing a piano. Each and every one of them had traits he could fall for. Hell, even Gabe could have pushed his buttons if he wasn’t so wrapped up in the big brothers already. The only thing he didn’t understand was what made _him_ so irresistible to them. He’d have to ask sometime. He should have asked Marlon. Maybe he’d have gotten it in poetry. Entrancing words to fill the cracks in him with gold, keeping him together. He tries not to think of the patriarch now. When he does, eleven days seem like an impossible time frame to find a body double on. _If_ Marlon even understood that’s what he needs to do if he wants to live after his death. Somebody will have to be sacrificed and now Dean has done all he can to make sure his whole family gets away alive and well. The way Marlon had been waiting for Nick disturbs him. It shows too much acceptance of the inevitable. Dean hopes the fake execution will have changed that. He once again pushes it out of his mind and puts his charming game face on as he approaches the receptionist.

“Hi. I’m here to see Samuel Moore?”

“I'm sorry, Sir. Mr. Moore isn’t in at the moment.”

_That's an anomaly._

“When will he be back?”

“He wasn’t sure. But he'll be here tomorrow.”

Dean thanks her and leaves the office. He strolls through a park, smoking and kicking at gravel. He’s perturbed and his gut churns nervously. He'd checked, and Sam should have been there. He'd amped up his courage, prepared himself for the worst. Now that's gone to shit and he’s having second and third thoughts about this endeavour. After all, he _had_ promised Sam to― 

Someone grabs his upper arm in a firm grip. After yesterday Dean’s mind instantly conjures possibilities of anything from cops to assassins in a heartbeat. He spins around swinging a punch.

Sam lets go and backpedals with his hands up in front of him. “Woah, Woah! Dean! It’s me!”

Dean catches himself halfway and lowers his arm abruptly. “Fuck sake, Sammy! Don't sneak up on me like that! I coulda hurt you!”

Sam’s placating body language is switched for a bitch face and he lowers his arms. “I didn’t _sneak up_ on you. I’ve been calling out your name since I spotted you. Loud enough for _everyone_ to hear.”

“Well, _I_ didn’t fucking hear you. And you shouldn’t scare a soldier. We’re twitchy fucking killing machines with PTSD an’ shit. What were you trying to accomplish anyway? I’m keeping my fucking promise to you,” Dean snipes fists on hips.

“I was _trying_ to get you to not run away like a chicken shit, you―” Sam begins angrily, but cuts himself off, holding up his hands and looking away, mouth twisted in frustration. “Look. Can we talk? And try not to do this cat and dog thing? I’m, I don’t, I don’t want to fall back into old patterns. I have so much I want to say to you. Please?”

Dean deflates. “I was at your office. Looking for you. You weren’t there,” he confesses.

Sam looks back at him, face gone softer. “My in-laws are visiting. The baby’s due any day now and… can we go somewhere? I’d invite you home but Tom and Grace are driving me insane, to be honest. I made some shitty excuse just to get away.”

_Well, that’s a huge ass peace laurel if I ever saw one._

“Bar or my apartment?”

* * *

Dean uncaps a beer and hands it to Sam, then takes a Pepsi Max for himself.

“You’re not drinking?” Sam asks.

“Maybe later. I don’t drink much these days. If we’re talking, I figure I should be clear headed, not to screw it up.” Dean taps out a cig from his pack, puts it behind his ear, taps out another one and lights it, then offers one to Sam who shakes his head with a small lopsided smile.

“Maybe later?” he jokes lamely.

Dean snorts in amusement and throws the pack on the kitchen table before sitting down in one of the chairs. The apartment is fully furnished and bland enough to dodge accusations of coziness. The walk here had been mostly awkwardly silent, and they’d stopped by a convenience store so Dean could buy something to offer Sam. Beer, soft drinks, tequila, lemon, snacks. The tequila is a silent longing for at least once in his life get the chance to party with his lil’ bro as adults. Dean thinks of how the Williams brothers are with each other and the envy it makes him feel. “What’s mine is yours, little brother.” His mind stutters for a moment, and he chuckles. “Kids an’ all,” he jokes before he can stop himself. He’s supposed to make peace, not provoke. Before he can apologise for the tasteless joke Sam huffs in dubious amusement.

“And spouses, apparently,” Sam says with a wry smirk, and sits down opposite of him. 

_Ouch._

“Yeah, um. Sorry about that. I asked him to distract you, but not to play with your heart.”

Sam takes a swig of his beer then studiously looks at the bottle as he picks at the label. “He, um… he told me his name was Dean. Then I saw an article in Gold Crusted…”

“Not my idea. He said something about poetic justice. If it makes you feel better, my jealousy was eating me up inside. I was scared shitless he’d leave me for you,” Dean tells him, making himself vulnerable, offering his heart up for stabbing.

Sam’s eyes flick up to meet his briefly before looking at his bottle again. He draws breath to answer but lets it out again, words unspoken. “Look. I’ve… I’ve been trying to find you. It’s been hard. Obviously. When Lu-Lucifer appeared on the news, I figured you were with him and… yeah. At least it explained why I couldn’t find you.” Sam’s little stutter on Nick’s name plays on Dean’s heartstring. From what Dean had seen and heard, Sam had been completely infatuated, maybe even in love with Nick, and had gotten his heart broken in the process. Dean might not have sympathized with Sam when it went down, but he does now.

“Yeah, that was a hoot. Trying to find Michael without getting busted by the feds, while at the same time trying to raise and socialize a puppy wasn’t all that easy, I’ll tell you.”

“Trying to―?” Sam looks relieved. “I _knew_ it wasn’t you. That thing at the ball... I don’t know exactly what went down since I only read about it in a couple of magazines, and I don’t trust the media to get anything right, but that thing? It had your stamp all over. Kidnapping someone? No. I refused to believe it. I mean, I… I o-obviously didn’t know Lucifer very well. But I couldn’t believe you’d allow him to do something like that. I…” Sam trails off, takes another swig of his beer and watches the smoke rings Dean’s blown as they dissipate. “What happened?”

“Gold Crusted got a lot of things right. Michael was my ex. He got engaged behind my back and kept lying to me. He kept hurting me and I wanted to get back at him. So I did. Lucifer was in on the plans because he’d been disowned and his dad had forbidden the rest of the family to communicate with him.” Dean uses ‘Lucifer’ not to confuse Sam further. “Then after the ball Mike disappeared and we set out to find him. We did. I ain’t gonna tell you about it right now. Mike will come clean about it to the press later this month. Maybe I’ll tell you the full truth in the future someday, if you…” ‘ _still want me around_ ,’ he doesn’t say.

Sam’s hitting him with master level puppy eyes full force. It’s the same expression he’d have after they started to sleep separately and dad came home drunk, when Sam would come to his room and stand in the doorway, shift from one bare foot to another, dad’s drunk voice slurring curses from downstairs. No words were needed then. Just those big, sad eyes of a frightened puppy, dissolving whatever wars went on between them during daytime. “I… So get this,” Sam starts. “Dad used to intercept your letters, read them, get drunk, and blame me for you leaving. I had only read a few until after the last time we, uh, talked. I went up to the attic and went through the stuff he left behind when he died. He’d saved all of them. All 307 letters. I finally got to read them…” he takes another deep swallow of his beer and reaches out towards Dean’s pack of cigarettes, halts, looking for permission, and then takes a cigarette.

Dean remains quiet, waiting. Blowing another set of smoke rings. He gives Sam time. Mostly because he’s not sure what he's expected to answer. 

Sam coughs after inhaling. He's not a smoker. It’s obvious on how he's holding the cigarette. The nicotine must be hitting him as hard as a strong tranquilizer would hit Dean. Which might very well the reason he chose to smoke one. “Look. I want to apologise. And to thank you.”

“Thank me? For what?” Dean asks in befuddlement. 

“For doing what you did. For saving my relationship. So, um. Get this. You were right. I love Jess, but you were right. I hadn’t expected her to be so obsessed with having a baby. My lies were eating a hole in me, to the point where I could barely look her in the eye. It was over. As much as I love her, I could feel the end of us. It was on me, right? But then you, uh… when she got pregnant…” Sam takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “I, uh, I’ve come clean to her. One night, after her belly started to get big… I had my hand on her belly and Noah kicked. I blurted it out. ‘Dean's my brother ‘, just like that. And when I'd said that the rest came pouring out of me. About my vasectomy. About dad. You. I, uh… I didn’t tell her I've cheated.” He gives Dean a pleading look.

“Do you do it often?”

“No. Never. De-Lucifer was s-special.” Sam looks down at his beer bottle again, roses blooming on his cheeks as he rips a long strip of the beer label off with the hand holding his cigarette.

“I won’t sell you out to Jess. Sometimes you deserve not to get caught.”

“Thanks. Um…” Sam inhales another breath of smoke without coughing this time. “She was… shocked, of course. I mean, who, who wouldn’t be, right?”

“Right.”

“Right. But after the first fight it caused, we actually got to talking. I mean, _really_ talking. Like I’ve never talked to anyone before. She knew me better than anyone, and she still didn’t know me at all. Instead of tearing us apart, we’re closer now than ever. And, and, I told her I wanted to find you, to see if there was a chance for us to be brothers again, like you asked for. She’s encouraged me. I never thought I’d find you. Then you showed up again just to give me our family history. Why did you run?”

“I promised you to stay away, didn’t I? But when I found out who we were… I’ve thought of myself as trash all my life. Like I wasn’t good enough, especially when I started dating Michael Williams. But finding out who we were, _are_ , made such a great difference for me. I figured, maybe you wanted Hunter Winchester in your life even if you didn’t want me.” Dean smiles sadly, takes a last drag on his cig and squishes the butt in an ashtray on the table.

“I do want you in my life. I didn’t. But I do now. I don’t know if we can ever repair what is broken between us. Just look at how we started fighting right away―”

“Sammy, I’ve never met two brothers who love each other more than Michael and Lucifer Williams, and even as grownass men, they still fight. We’re talking bruises and bleeding noses kind of fights. But when it matters, there's nothing they wouldn't do for each other. So I’m not expecting rainbows and kittens.”

“Yeah, okay, right. Me neither. But I’d like to try. It feels like, like dad took something from us that should have been ours. Jess and I… we spoke to Tom and Grace. I told them that I have a gay brother that I don’t want to deny anymore. We’re family, right? And Jess said that it’s God’s job to judge in the afterlife, so she refuse to do it on Earth. So if they can’t handle welcoming a gay person into their family, they can get themselves another daughter and another grandson. Because you’re my only living family, and a good person who deserves to be respected. They, uh. They took it fairly well. They’re good people, at heart. Despite their views. You should have seen Jess, Dean. She’s such a fireball when she wants to be.”

Dean grins. He tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. His heart is too big and there’s no space for air in his lungs.”Grandson, huh? You sure it’s a boy?”

Sam beams right back at him. “That’s what the doctors tells us. We’re naming him Noah Dean Justin. After Jess’ brother, you, and Jess best friend in high school. He’s dead now, and, um. Doesn’t matter,” Sam says and digs in his inner pocket of the suit jacket he’d thrown over his chair earlier. He comes out with an envelope, takes something out, drops his cig in the ashtray and comes around the table. He squats beside Dean and holds up what he had. It’s an ultrasound picture. He points at it. “Look here. According to the doctor, this is his, um, penis.”

“Dammit, Sammy. Are you really showing me dick pics?” Dean jokes.

Sam chuckles. “Shut up, jerk. And this is the most recent pic,” he says and shuffles another picture that had been hidden behind the first, to the front. It’s a fucking face. 

“What the hell? Is this a computer model or some shit?”

Sam grins. “No. It’s a 3D ultrasound picture of your son. He’s a big boy.”

“Your son,” Dean quickly corrects and reaches out to hover above the picture without touching. It looks like a sepia clay model of a sleeping baby’s head, a hand with its thumb barely tucked into a pretty mouth with pronounced Cupid’s bow, perky little button nose and chubby cheeks. Something strange and frightening and huge is going on behind Dean’s breastbone. “Is, uh, is Jess doing alright? Are they d-doing alright?” His voice comes out rough and unstable.

“They’re doing fine both of them. I’m scared out of my wits about becoming a dad, but I wouldn’t want to change a thing. Not now. The first time I put my hand on Jess’ belly and felt Noah move…” Sam utters a nervous little laugh. 

“Sammy… c-can I be his uncle?”

And isn’t that a stupid question to ask? He _is_ , whether Sam kicks him out of the baby’s life or not. _Noah. His name is Noah. Holy shit I did this!_

“Please,” Sam says quietly. And there it is again. Those puppy eyes begging big brother to save him.

Dean can’t fucking breathe. He can’t breathe or think or make his heart slow down its rapid beat. He twists around in his chair, tugging Sam into a hug, making him tip to his knees. Sam’s a giant fucking freak of a man, but he hugs back and _fuck_ if it doesn’t feel good.

In the dreams Dean’s had about them, Dean’s never been one to hug people. In his dreams it made him feel vulnerable and exposed, and he’d feel like it somehow lessened him as a man. Like it would make him feel the loss of the person he hugs so much more, just because he let them come that close. In real life, it’s the other way around. Even hugging a stranger could work as a band aid over the wounds inside. And hugging his huge-ass little brother feels so liberating. Like releasing a breath you’ve been holding for too long. 

He can’t swallow past the lump in his throat, make his heart slow, stop his eyes from stinging, or get control over the way his whole body feels dizzy. 

So why is _Sam_ suddenly the one crying into his shoulder?

* * *

A couple of hours, a few beers, and half a bottle of tequila later, Sam gets a text from Jess.

`**Jessica:** Where ARE you???`

“Oh, shit. I should’ve been home ages ago. Hold on. Gotta call her.”

“Facetime ‘er. Wanna talk to her,” Dean slurs. The emotional relief had made him giddy all by itself, making for a great buzz when he started drinking.

“Great! You’re my excuse,” Sam says.

“I _am_ your reason. Pretty obvious, Sammy,” Dean enunciates. 

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

He fucking hated Sam the kid a lot of the time. But he might love Sam the man endlessly. Or it’s the tequila talking, but whatever. They’ve been updating each other on their lives, speaking nonstop since the hug in the kitchen. Made apologies, told each other how they’ve felt about this and that, guilt tripped and laughed, flitted from subject to subject. Sam wants to meet his dog, because of course he does. Dean’s taken selfies with Sam and sent to all the Williams boys. Nick responded ‘ _Next time, send nudes. ;)_ ’ since he’s a fuckwad but Dean still loves him more than life itself.

Sam calls and Jess picks up right away. “Honey, where _are_ you? You were supposed to be home two hours ago. We’ve eaten without you now and I started to worry.”

“I can explain―” Sam starts.

Dean pops his head over Sam’s shoulder and smiles brightly at Jess. “Heya, baby mama.”

Jess makes an high pitched ‘ _Ooip_!’ noise. “Dean!” 

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve hogged my lil’ bro here to make up. Sorry, not sorry.” He hooks his arm over Sam’s neck and gives Jess a shiteating grin. Sam giggles drunkenly.

“Oh, you scoundrel! The next time you stop by I’m gonna kick your lying ass,” Jess says and wiggles her finger admonishingly in front of the screen.

“Guess I deserve it. No permanent damage, though,” he answers with a wink.

Jess chuckles. “Your hair is long,” she states.

“Yes, ma’am. That happens when you don’t cut it.”

“Don’t sass me, Mister,” she replies mock-sternly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. You look good, baby mama. You doing okay? Everything good with Noah?”

“Yes. I tire easily and my lower back’s killing me. He’s no lightweight. But we’re in good health.” She pans the camera down to her belly, resting a hand over it.

“Holy shit, Jessy bean. You’re _huge_. What didja do? Fuck a hippo?” Dean jokes. Sam bitch faces him with and reprimands him with a stern ‘ _Dean_.’

Jess laughs. “Yes I did. An ugly one to boot,” she jokes right back, making both Sam and Dean laugh.

They chat for a little while. Sam’s allowed to be out playing with Dean all night, and Dean gets a permanent invite to their home. ...As long as he’s sober. (Jess’ mom walks by just in time to hear Dean make a really dirty joke he sure as hell wouldn’t have made unless he was drunk, which triggers that condition.) (Yes, he would have. But whatever.)

All in all, when Dean’s knocked out by a sleeping pill on his flight back to France two days later, he’s got a little brother that wants him in his life, a kick-ass sister in law, and will be an uncle with visiting rights any day now.

Sometimes good things _do_ happen.

* * *


	99. Sharp Knives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apart from my usually thank you to my betas, I'd like to thank [brieflymaximumprincess](http://brieflymaximumprincess.tumblr.com/) for helping me with the French sentence.
> 
> Also, thank you so much for your comments. They do so much to keep my mood up. I'm struggling a bit right now, trying to handle the thing with dad's leukemia. 
> 
> Oh and lastly, trigger warning for this chapter: Dean's a moron. Um...? That's not a trigger warning? Okay, sorry. Self-harm. Better?

* * *

# Sharp Knives

`UNFAIRLY GORGEOUS`   
`WINCHESTER WILLIAMS`

Dean sniggers at the sign Mike’s holding up where he stands amongst other chauffeurs and taxi drivers waiting with signs outside of baggage claim. Dean hasn’t communicated with Mike much apart from sending the selfie with Sam. Mike on the other hand, has kept texting him, just like Nick had when Dean went AWOL back in the days. Telling Dean things about his days, sending pictures and commentary as if Dean’s inbox was his private Instagram/Twitter combo. Such a major difference from before, when he’d done everything to separate Dean from his life when they were apart. Dean loves it. Although, it makes it necessary to keep his phone on silent at all times because apparently Mike sleeps insanely little these days. He’s made a mental note to keep track of Mike’s sleeping habits in case they persist after all has settled down. He’s also called Cas before boarding, to ask if Mike had kept himself in check. Cas almost sounded disappointed when he told Dean that yes, Mike had been a good boy, and added that he’d even resisted honey traps Cas set for him. (Dean refrained from asking _why_ Cas would set such traps to start with, but he’s thankful to know Mike isn’t trying to break any ‘rules’.)

He grins at Mike as he approaches. “Dude. With the hand I was dealt in my childhood, being gorgeous is totally fair.”

Mike lowers the sign and smiles at him. “I don’t think that’s how things work, but very well.”

Dean snorts in amusement, lets go of his bag and tugs Mike in for a kiss, trying not to laugh at his startled expression. It's just a soft press of lips anyway. 

“Does this mean I'm forgiven?” Mike asks. 

“You think you can be satisfied with only two dicks for the rest of your life? Both figuratively and literally?” Dean counters. 

“Yes.”

“Then, yeah. You are.” Dean licks his lips and leans in for another kiss, giving Mike a chance to wet his lips too before impact. Mike opens up so willingly, closes his eyes, drops his sign and winds his arms around Dean. One of Mike’s hands go up to cup his neck, the other holds him firmly around his back, keeping him close.

All is good and well in this world. 

“Don’t you think we should wait until Luci gets home?” Mike mumbles against his lips when they come up for air. 

“We could,” Dean answers and dives right back in again. Mike tastes of minty gum and smells newly showered and fresh. His hold feels good and right and liberating. “ _Or_ , you can show me if you’re still as good at concentrating on driving a car while receiving a BJ, as you used to be,” he says when he comes up for air again.

Mike chuckles. “Luci might make me pay for it, but screw him.”

In the car after they’ve buckled up Mike doesn’t start the car immediately. Instead he sits looking at Dean with a soft smile.

“What?” Dean asks dubiously.

“I’ve missed you. Even your freckles.”

“‘Even’,” Dean scoffs and turns his head away.

“No, no. That came out wrong. Dean, I love your freckles. I…” Mike runs his fingers through his hair with a aggravated expression. Dean looks back at him. “I’ve taken a good long look at myself this week, Dean. I’ve always loved _your_ freckles, but. I’ve realised that my general dislike for freckles is based on jealousy. I didn’t get it back then, but Luci adores freckles and anyone who had them could distract him from me while he was home on leave. Freckles meant competition in a game I had no idea I was competing in. Does this make sense to you?”

Dean smirks lopsidedly. “Yeah, it does. I’ve gotten a taste of that too. Before he and I got together. He’d never go for men in my presence unless they were freckled. Now, will you drive so I can get some fucking action?”

Action is the right word. Mike’s a talented driver. He can keep good focus on the road while having his dick thoroughly taken cared of by Dean’s mouth. Dean makes a sport of trying to make him lose his focus. He’s not sure if it counts as edgeplay, but it sure as hell should, because if Dean succeeds they could both die and that’s fucking thrilling. The higher the speed, the more Dean enjoys it. 

Mike doesn’t lose his focus. 

He’s drenched in sweat and shaking by the time Dean gets him to come mid-traffic, but he’s sharp as a fucking knife when it comes to handling the car. Mike has his own kind of mad streak, even if it isn’t as obvious as Nick’s.

Dean’s thought a lot about that. About why Mike provoked Nick, and attacked when it should be obvious that he could never actually win. He wonders if it’s something of the same as this. Tethering at the cusp of something lethal. “You know you could never take Nick in a fight, right?” Dean says as he sits up straight after putting Mike’s spent dick back in his pants for him.

Mike lets out a startled laughter, giddy in the aftermath of his orgasm. “Wow, that was random. Yes, I’m fully aware. Violence is as much a passion as a talent of his. What brought this on?”

Dean shrugs. Mike doesn’t know he saw the fight. No need to fess up.

Mike side-eyes him. “Luci told you about our fight?” When Dean doesn’t answer and just gives him a flat stare instead, he adds “...or fights?”

“You provoke him.”

“I can’t help myself. He’s glorious. I told you I love the monster, I just don’t get to see it as often as I want to. So I push him. It usually doesn’t end very well for me, though,” he admits. “But…” He pauses and side eyes Dean again. “We had a fight just before you left, about my fuck up. It’s the first time he channeled it into an, uh, happy ending.”

“Really?” Dean feigns surprise. “Then maybe you can solve a mystery for me?”

“What?”

“Who bottoms? You’re both tops. It’s driving me insane trying to figure it out.”

Mike laughs, carefree and beautiful, cheeks colouring. “Still a mystery, I’m afraid. We haven’t gone down that road yet.”

“Just to make things clear. You’ve never bottomed, right? I’m taking it for granted because I’ve never fucked you and you’ve said you’ve never been with a guy before me. But you’ve done your share of lying, so…”

“That part is completely true. The thought of being with a guy still gross me out a bit, you and Luci excepted,” Mike says in good spirit and takes Dean’s hand, bringing it to rest on his thigh.

“Huh. But would you consider bottoming?”

“Do you want to top me?” There’s something sly in Mike’s eyes when he asks.

“You’d let me?”

Mike nods. “Mhm.” But he says it too lightly, too cheerfully. Like he’s up to no good. 

Like maybe giving Dean something Nick might consider his. Dean wouldn’t put it past them to do shit like that. “Thanks, but I’m happy being the receiver.” Dean thinks of how the brothers have rolled around kissing despite all the blood. “Hey, so. While we’re at it. Do you have some hidden kinks I should be aware of? Like a blood kink or something?”

Mike gives him a dubious look. “No, not as such. I, uh… I haven’t thought about it. I don’t mind the taste, though. And as long as the blood’s mine or someone I don’t give a shit about, I don’t… You know what? I’m glad you brought this up. You and Luci have pretty rough sex sometimes, right?”

“ _Du-uh_. He’s a sadist. I let him play sometimes. So?”

“So could you maybe not, when I’m around? I’ve been thinking about that but there was no use bringing it up until I knew if you’d forgiven me or not. And yesterday Luci said something about how he wanted to, um, carve you, and…” Mike shudders. “I don’t take it well. Watching people I love in pain. I’m not saying you shouldn’t do what you do, or anything. I just don’t want to be around when you play that sort of games.”

Dean’s mind had hit the breaks at the word ‘carve’?

“Excuse me come again say what now? He wants to _carve_ me?”

“Yes. Gabe gave him the idea when he joked about scarification art. Luci asked me if I thought there was any chance you’d agree to it, and if so, if I could make a sketch of a pair of wings for him to carve on your back.”

“Wings,” Dean states numbly.

“Mhm. Since you virtually saved the both of us. Like our guardian angel, or something. It would be very symbolic.”

Dean stares wide eyed at Mike. “And this is the shit you talk about on the phone?”

“It came up.”

“ _How_? How does something like that just come up in a normal conversation?”

“We were talking about covering his scars with tattoos. I asked if he’d let me draw them. One thing led to another and…” Mike shrugs, looking a bit nervous.

“Jeezus Christ.” Dean turns to stare out of the side window, stunned.

Mike doesn’t seem to know what to say, keeping quiet.

Bruises are one thing, but letting Nick loose with a fucking knife on his back? Fucking hell, that’s fucked up! That’s like a whole new level of insanity.

“Are you good at drawing wings?”

“Holy shit, you’re actually considering it,” Mike exclaims in shock. “Are you completely mad?”

“So you’re not, huh?” Dean baits.

“I draw gorgeous wings. But carving would be absurd, Dean.”

“Ey. I’m just thinking that Nicky’s scarred up pretty bad, and it would be a great goodwill gesture, you feel me? Plus, you’d get to mark me up as yours. If you draw and he carves, it’ll be both of y’all’s markings. I can’t marry both of y’all, but…”

Now, _that_ shuts Mike’s protests up and makes him silent for a completely other reason.

“‘Sides, wings I can get behind. It’ll remind you I can fly away if you’re being dicks. More than usual, I mean,” Dean adds with a wink. “But don’t get worked up just yet. Just because I don’t rule it out straight away doesn’t mean I’ll agree to it if Nicky asks.”

“Of course. So, um… congratulations for your success, talking to your brother. How did it play out?” Mike swiftly changes the subject.

“Man, it couldn’t have gone better! I…” Dean tells him all about it, putting Nick’s outlandish wishes out of his mind temporarily. After all, Nick might not ask him at all. It’s extreme. Maybe too extreme. Maybe Nick will come to his senses and let the idea go.

* * *

Entering Cas’ home he gets assaulted right at the door. Three vicious pom poms attack his feet. Literally. Barking and snarling and biting. “Dude, what the _hell_?” Dean exclaims, staring down at the black and tan floof-ball tearing at his jeans with ferocious determination as Mike edges past him with his bag, completely un-assaulted by the three miniature multicoloured fluff balls.

“Oh. I forgot to warn you. Meg’s dog-sitting Balt’s pomeranians this week. They’re a bit suspicious towards strangers. They’ll get over it. Mave loves them,” he says and continues towards the elevator as if it’s natural and okay for dogs to behave this way.

Dean remains standing, gawking down at the dogs, reminding himself that kicking creatures smaller than his boots is _wrong_. But what the fuck should he do? He can hardly sit down and say hello, because the black and tan one might be harmless when tugging at his jeans, but small or not, it could probably do some real damage to a hand. The white one’s just barking its lungs out, and the orange one’s growling, showing teeth, and dodging in making fake attacks anytime Dean shifts.

Meg shows up and snaps her fingers. “To me,” she commands.The assault stops immediately. The small dogs all scamper off to sit by her feet, wagging tails and looking mighty proud of themselves. “So you’ve met my hell hounds,” she smirks.

“No fucking shit. What didja do? Train them to murder people?”

She sniggers. “Good idea, but no.” She looks down at the dogs who all stare up at her adoringly. “Go say hello. Be nice,” she commands.

This time when the dogs scamper towards him there’s no trace of the initial hostility.

“Don’t be shy, Deano. Sit down and say hello,” she encourages with a teasing smirk.

Dean eyes her dubiously before crouching down and carefully reaching his hand out to let the dogs sniff.

30 minutes later Mavis comes rushing down the stairs, finding him sitting cross legged, cuddling the three demon dogs, and he’s assaulted for the second time, but this time by licks and screams of joy. The poms might be adorable and friendly _now_. But Dean’s more than a little intimidated by Meg’s control of them. He’s certain she could get them to attack at any moment if she wanted to. Mavis however, he trusts and loves to bits. He considers overseeing his visits with Meg, to make sure she doesn’t turn him into a ‘hellhound’ too.

* * *

Nick comes home a couple of hours later. Dean’s napping with Mike wrapped around him when he startles awake from the bed bouncing under him. He blinks up at Nick’s grinning face, fresh tan visible in the afternoon light. He’s standing on all fours, bracketing the both of them. “Well, well. What have we got here? Two gorgeous pieces of ass, just for me…”

“Damn straight,” Dean mumbles sleepily. “All yours, baby.”

“Mostly yours,” Mike mumbles. “Dean’s also,” he adds.

Nick scrunches his face in displeasure at Mike. “Suck up.” 

Mike chuckles, voice sleep rough, and tries to pull Nick down for a kiss.

“Nu-uh-uh. This demonstrates a problem about being three in a relationship, that I hadn’t thought of.”

“What’s that?” Mike wonders.

“Who to kiss first, jackass.”

Dean chuckles. “In that case, choose me. It’s his fault you’ve been without for a week.”

“ _Hey_. Not fair. You sent him away when you could have taken him with you. I was the only one who was supposed to be punished,” Mike argues good naturedly.

“Yes. This is perfect. Keep fighting about me,” Nick purrs with a self-satisfied smirk from above.

Dean lashes out, punching Nick in the bend of his elbow, making him topple onto Dean’s side. Nick laughs as Dean pulls his head in for a kiss. He laughs even more when Dean puts his hands on his chest and pushes him up again, only to topple him over to Mike’s side with a magnanimous “Your turn.”

It’s the start of a couple of really awesome days where everything is fun and games and romance. Mostly. The brothers still bicker and are highly competitive about him (which is really satisfying) and about everything else (which can be annoying as fuck). Nick doesn’t ask if he can carve Dean, but Mike draws the most beautiful flowers in markers on Nick’s scars. And with those on his skin, Nick looks rather pleased while looking in the mirror. He even shocks Dean by venturing to the kitchen without a shirt on one morning, despite Meg being there alongside his brothers. They don’t see much of Gabe, who’s bouncing around Europe, leaving early in the morning and coming back in the evening or the day after. It really puts in perspective how big the States are, when you can visit several countries in a single day over here. 

Mave is living the high life, with long walks and dog friends to play with at home. The hellhounds are cute as hell, but they ain’t got nothing on Mave. It’s fun playing with all four of them at once, though. Only once does Mavis get in a fight with one of them. The orange one comes trotting down the stairs with Mavis’ plush bunny in its mouth and Mave shows that he can have just as fierce temper tantrums as his daddy. Although, Dean’s impressed at how fast the dogs become friends again after Mave has reclaimed his bunny and put the other dog in its place.

Nick might not have asked to be allowed to carve, but he asks for something else instead.

“Come on, Dean. _Please_. It can’t be that hard. You can do it. I know you can.”

“I said _no_. Jeezus. I’m not made of rubber. If it’s so fucking easy, why don’t _you_ do it.”

Nick rolls his eyes. “Because I’m not a bottom. You are. Come on, darling. Take us both. You know you want to.”

That’s right. Nick’s holding one hell of a campaign for Dean to agree to DP. And, yeah, maybe he does want it. But fuck. Both Nick and Mike are well endowed enough to make Dean freak out about taking the both of them at the same time. “Do I look like a fucking pornstar to you?”

“Yes.”  
“Yes.”

Because of course, Nick isn’t campaigning on his own. Mike is right there along with him, letting him do most of the talking but backing him up completely. Assholes. “Fuck off. I’ll think about it. But y’all together might be just a bit too much.”

And think about it he does.

He also keeps thinking about letting Nick carve, which causes some unnecessary drama since he’s a moron and he’s been obsessing over it a bit too much.

One night when the other two are sleeping, he nips down to the kitchen for a midnight snack. He’s gotten the makings of a sandwich―mayo, ham, cheese, bell peppers―and is about to cut the pepper with a small kitchen knife of excellent quality.

He feels the sharpness of the blade with a finger. It's so sharp he barely feels the shallow cut. He stares at the little droplet of blood on his finger, contemplating. Then he rinses the knife in hot water, puts the blade on the meaty part on the outside of his forearm near the elbow. He makes a slow cut from that point all the way to his wrist joint. Even with such a sharp blade it hurts, stuttering his breath, making sweat bead on his skin, and releasing a burst of endorphins in his bloodstream. He feels it like a suction by his diaphragm, warming him from within. He puts down the knife on the counter and stares at the blood pouring up from the cut while zoning out, focusing on everything happening in his body _except_ the pain.

Briefly he wonders if Cas has a first aid kit and if so, where?

_Oh boy. I did_ not _think this through._

The cut throbs faintly and blood drips onto the counter and lands on the yellow bell pepper in a pretty colour combination. 

“Oh, Lord! What _happened_?”

Dean jerks in startlement, looking at the doorway where Cas stares at his bleeding arm in distress. “I cut myself,” he answers numbly. 

Cas takes three strides into the room and grabs him by the elbow and hand, pulling the injured arm towards himself for inspection. Dean might have cut a bit deeper than he intended to in places where blood now runs in slow rivulets to drip down on the floor below. Cas lets go with one hand to grip Dean by the chin to pull his face closer. He stares into Dean’s eyes with a worried frown. “Are you high?”

“No.”

“Drunk?” Cas asks and sniffs his breath. 

“ _No_.”

“Depressed?”

“No! Christ, take a chill pill, would ya? You’re freaking me out!”

“I’m―? Dean! This is not an accidental cut,” Cas responds sharply looking around the kitchen urgently, searching for something. 

“I know that. Told ya I cut myself,” Dean snipes, pulse jumping harder in response to Cas’ distress. 

Cas drags him along to a cupboard under the counter, bends down to open it and pulls out a clean kitchen towel. “You say that as if you're making sense.”

“It’s your fault. If you didn't keep your knives so sharp I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Obviously that’s the logical conclusion,” Cas mutters sarcastically. He swipes a finger through the blood and sticks it in his mouth almost as if he’s not thinking of what he's doing. With his other hand he presses the towel over the wound. 

“Fine. I'm trying to gauge if I'd be okay with Nicky carving something into my skin.”

“So it's Luci’s fault.”

“No. I didn’t say―“

“Here. Put pressure on this and sit down. Hold your arm up high. I need to go get supplies to care for this and wake Mikey up. This might need stitches and he’s the best at taking care of injuries.”

“No, Cas, please don't―“

“Shush, _espèce d'imbécile_.” Cas snaps his fingers demandingly and pushes him down in a chair. He swipes his finger through the blood on the underside of Dean’s arm where the towel doesn’t cover it, sticks his finger in his mouth thoughtlessly, and briskly leaves the room.

Twenty minutes later Dean’s sitting on the same chair, mortified, well on his way to getting high on the three painkillers he'd been provided with. He’s shaky. He’s got Mike on one side, stitching his arm with stitches any professional would be proud of, while hovering close to tears in distress in a way a professional _wouldn’t_ be proud of. 

He’s got Nick on his other side, oozing smug contentment, caressing his thigh, smoking a cigarette, shotgunning smoke into his mouth every second inhale, nuzzling his shoulder, and repeatedly sucking at a hickey he made on Dean’s throat. Any time he bends forward to better on his mark he makes a low, pleased noise, nearly a purr. 

And anytime he makes that noise Cas―sitting across from Dean, ramrod straight and arms crossed over his chest―makes a disapproving sound suspiciously close to a growl, in response. He’s glaring angrily at the three of them. No, at Dean and Nick. Especially Nick. There’s some heavy, unspoken brotherly communication going on, and since the table's at Dean’s back, he's caught smack in the middle of the three very strong emotions. Honestly, the unspoken conversations are really fucking interesting. And had Dean not been in the epicentre of those, he'd have loved to try to decipher them, especially since he missed the spoken parts that undoubtedly happened while Cas woke the brothers up.

Like when Nick fed him the painkillers straight to Dean’s mouth. Nobody said anything about it, but Nick got that fierce hungry look that shifted into smugness when he saw his brothers’ reactions. Cas, already angry, went into having the most outrageous bitchface Dean’s ever seen. Mike’s distressed expression was traded for something jealous. Dean has no idea what that's all about. It must be something symbolic. These fuckers are suckers for symbolism. Maybe Dean would get what's going on better if he wasn’t feeling a bit woozy.

Whatever it is, it bleeds over to shotgunning too. Every breath of smoke Nick feeds him amps up the judgement in Cas’ expression, and Nick’s conceited one as well.

Dean, however, feels like he wants to sink through the floor in embarrassment. Thank God for the painkillers starting to dissolve the clarity of his mind around the edges. “You into blood play or sumthin’?” Dean asks Cas out of the blue, breaking the silence. It’s in self-defense, shifting the focus from him (or perhaps Nick? Whatever.) to Cas.

“No.”

“So why’dja lick my blood from yer fingers?”

Both Mike and Nick makes a ‘ _What?_ ’ face and turn their heads to look at Cas.

Cas scowls. “I certainly did no such thing. You were in shock, imagining things,” he insists petulantly.

Nick narrows his eyes at Cas, whose anger turns sullen rather than self-righteous.

“Uh-huh,” Dean answers. He had _not_ imagined it. He’s 99.9% certain of that. His action might have been a tad bit insane, but not confused. Instead of arguing he turns his head to watch Mike’s stitches. “Damn, babe. That’s some fine ass stitchin’. Maybe you shoulda become a doctor or somethin’,” he praises.

“Thank you, soldier. But in the future, could you refrain from doing these things to yourself? I’d vastly prefer if you did it to _other_ people I don’t know instead.”

“Listen to Michael. He’s older than you, so he knows better,” Cas states.

Dean chortles. “ _That’s_ your argument? Cas, sweetheart, you’re _all_ older than me. Including Nicky, and he ain’t giving me shit about it.” Dean kinda loves how Cas bristles when Dean uses ‘sweetheart’ patronizingly.

Nick tuts. “Now, now. Listen to your elders. You heard Mikey. He’d like you to cut up other people. So if we go out and find a suitabl―”

“I didn’t _say_ that, you moron. You know perfectly well what I meant,” Mike snipes at Nick, then, at Dean, “Dammit! Will you stop laughing? I can’t make the last stitch if you keep twitching.”

“Well, you should have meant it that way, Mikey,” Nick counters, “because Dean’s fucking hot when he puts a blade to someone. You should have seen him when he got the maid. Our sweet little dork turned into a stone-faced angel of Death, and―”

“ _Jeezus_ , fuckwad. Will you shut up about Isobel? Cas doesn’t have to―”

“You killed the missing maid?”

“He sure did,” Nick coos like a proud parent.

Maybe the painkillers took away more clarity than he thought, because instead of getting all bristly and uncomfortable, he gets another laughing fit at how absurd it all is. Maybe it’s a tad bit tinged by hysteria. Just a little bit.

All in all, though, the days are fucking fantastic. Nick scheduled to leave early on the 17th, travelling under a false name, then come back as soon as his mission is completed, so they can claim he was in France all along.

That’s not what happens though...

* * *


	100. Daddy Dearest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains spoilers for Sherlock BBC, The Reichenbach Fall, season 2.   
> But duuuude. It aired in January 2012. Withholding spoilers is long overdue. Besides, it's a very famous scene. It's a spoiler you must have come across already.
> 
> **CHAPTER WARNING**  
>  Graphic depiction of death.
> 
> Also, have faith in 'The Father', will you?

* * *

# Daddy Dearest

The phone call comes 01:27 AM the 17th, 5 hours and 13 minutes before Nick’s flight is scheduled to take off, 3 hours before he needs to be at the airport. 

Mike’s phone rings. He frowns at the caller ID and slips out of bed not to disturb his companions. Dean wasn’t sleeping, to begin with. He’s worrying too much about what’s about to happen. He stirs, supporting himself on an elbow to watch Mike walk towards the door. Nick awakens and blinks wearily. ‘’Ts time ‘lready?”

Mike hears him and turns his head to look at them as he answers the phone and pushes the door open. “Michael Williams, speaking.”

Mave jumps down from the bed and trots after Mike curiously.

“No. Who the fuck would be calling at this hour?” Dean asks when Nick sits up, suddenly on high alert.

“The question is who Mike would be answering for, not who’d call,” Nick answers.

Since they’re awake, Mike stops by the door, listening with a frown on his face while Mave sits by his feet, looking up at him. “No… Okay. ...He did _what_?” He turns around to face Nick and Dean with eyes wide in shock under his frown. “Lawrence, are you sure?...” Mike’s hand goes to cover his mouth and Dean’s pulse jumps into overdrive. Whatever is said, it’s serious, and Lawrence is the family lawyer. “When?... Uh-huh… Yes. I’ll wake the others up and set up for a video conference right away. We’ll be ready in fifteen. ...Yes. Alright. In fifteen minutes. Bye.” Mike hangs up and lowers his phone staring at Nick and Dean disbelievingly.

“What? What’s happened, Mikey?” Nick asks, worry making Nick sounding angry even if his face tells differently.

“It’s dad… he’s dead.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later they’re all seated in a conference room on the second floor, Dean and Meg included. The lawyer, Lawrence is staring at them with a serious face from a huge monitor on the wall at the high end of the long table. Nick’s turned his chair the wrong way, straddling it, arms crossed over the backrest. His face is set in a blank, bored mask, which means he’s anything but. Similarly, Cas too, has donned a neutral but austere mask. Meg’s sitting beside him, holding his hand under the table. Mike’s eyes convey a lot of emotions, even if his general demeanour is business like. Gabe’s the only one who hasn’t managed to scramble into clothes, sitting there in only red satin boxers with white hearts on. He looks like a wreck. But then again, he's only had 20 minutes of sleep or so the last 24 hours. Dean’s torn between hope and terror. Hope, that Marlon took his not so subtle hint. Terror that he didn't. 

“I regret having to make this call to you. But Marlon was very clear about his wishes,” Lawrence tells them. He’s an old, skinny man with long hair and an elongated, bony face. He looks kind, while at the same time making Dean think of Death, as in the grim reaper. If Death was human, he'd look like Lawrence. Maybe it’s just Dean’s state of mind talking. Lawrence’s eyes are red rimmed and glossy as if he’s been crying or trying not to cry, but for the rest, he’s calm and collected. 

“Earlier today I called your father to tell him that Hannah’s disownment was finalised. He then instructed me to be on standby at my office and to set up for a video call that was to be recorded,” Lawrence goes on. “About an hour ago he made this video call to me and told me to leave the room for thirty minutes and when I came back in, make sure you all saw the recording straight away. I'm going to show it to you now, so you see it before the police have had a chance to. He asked that your sisters be spared unless you need to leak it to the media. And before showing it, let me just say I'm sorry to have to do this to you all.”

“We know you’re only doing as you're told, Lawrence. We appreciate your loyalty, no matter what father did on the recording,” Mike assures. 

Lawrence nods. “Thank you, Michael. I've worked exclusively for your family my whole career, and I consider Marlon a close friend. This isn’t easy for me. I…” Lawrence halts and rubs a hand over his mouth to stave off emotions. “I'll just put it on,” he says, reaches out and fiddles with his keyboard, then the image shifts so they're looking at Marlon and Dean’s heart lurches. 

He looks so tired and not at all like they're used to seeing him. He’s sitting in a simple chair beside what's presumably his bedroom desk judging by the room around him. It’s draped in plastic. So are the wall and the door behind him, the floor, and everything in his close vicinity. Not the whole room, though. The camera is placed far back enough for them to be able to see most of the room. The bedroom TV is on in the background too. Dean recognises the show that is on, and more specifically, the episode. It’s giving him more hope, because it’s BBC’s Sherlock, the episode where Sherlock kills himself. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything symbolic ( _Please, please, please, be symbolic!_ ) but Dean hopes so, since Sherlock comes back. One of Marlon’s hands is rested on his grey sweatpant-clad knee, the other on the side of the desk, where he’s absentmindedly playing with his golden lighter. A .44 snub-nosed revolver ominously lies on the desk beside his arm.

His hair is a mess, like he’s run his hands through it a number of times, showing that Mike’s and Gabe’s curled locks are definitely a trait inherited from their dad. He’s only wearing a simple white tee, straining over his chest and shoulders. Even with the bags under his eyes and simple clothing he’s a very attractive man, retaining his regal charm. He looks into the camera as he talks. “...are you recording?”

“Yes, Sir,” comes Lawrence voice in return.

“Good. I want you to leave the room for thirty minutes while I address my sons. If Naomi isn’t in here when you return, call her. Otherwise, follow the instructions I gave you,” Marlon instructs.

“I will, Sir. Leaving the room right away.”

Marlon waits, looking at the camera and flipping the lighter lid open and close repeatedly. He waits about a minute before he speaks again. “Hi, boys. I have several things I want to say to you, and it’s my wish that if you do show this to your sisters, don’t show them the end.”

Dean’s stomach lurches. Lawrence already told them Marlon had taken his own life. You don’t have to be a genius to figure out what will happen at the end. He lights a cigarette to calm his nerves and studies Marlon carefully, desperately searching for a tell that this isn’t actually Marlon he’s seeing. Jimmy, as alike as he is Cas, has small differences that give him away. Dean can’t find a single one tell that the man on the video is anyone but who he claims to be and it’s stressing him the fuck out.

“I’m making this recording to address you, and the law enforcement that will inevitably watch this. Maybe the media too. And as such, I’ll start by identifying myself.” Marlon takes a wallet out of one of the pockets in his sweats, takes out his driver’s license and gets up. He approaches the camera and holds the license up so everyone can read it. “My name is Marlon Williams. I’m the patriarch of the Long Island Williams family, the owner of the Williams enterprises.” He shifts the license to the side, holding it next to his face, up close and personal.

There’s no doubt in Dean’s mind that he’s staring into Marlon’s eyes. Ice blue leaning towards silver at the moment - not radiant glacial blue like they turn when he’s aroused - but still his. The crow’s feet at the corners, the faint, minuscule scars after the plastic surgery, the faint little freckle on his throat, the cadence and pitch of his voice―all Marlon. 

Marlon goes back to his chair, puts the license back in his wallet, and puts the wallet on the desk and sits back down. “I want to address my sons, first of all. I love you all, very much, even if it doesn’t seem like it at times. I’m also very proud of you. That goes for your sisters too. And Lucifer, that goes for you too. I’m very proud of you, despite us not agreeing on some of your life’s choices. I’m saddened that I will never get the chance to reconcile with you. But if I'm to be realistic, the chance of that is long gone.” Marlon looks so sad when he says it that Dean gets a lump in his throat. Nick’s face remains impassive, bored, but he lights a cigarette and lets it dangle in his mouth. 

“Since I couldn’t be at your wedding, let me gratulate you now instead. Your husband is a very smart, intuitive, and charming man, as well as exquisitely beautiful. He’s quite a catch, if I may say so, and I hope you're happy together. For whatever it's worth, you've got my blessing... Not that you've ever wanted or needed it. But he’s well worth the Williams name, and from what I've seen he is fiercely protective of the whole family, which is more than I could have asked for.”

Nick’s hooded eyelids lower even further. Mike touches his shoulder reassuringly. He doesn’t react. 

Marlon shifts in the chair and runs a hand through his hair. “I have so much I want to say to all of you, but it will have to go unsaid since we're on a schedule. So… now it's time to address the law enforcement. I've recently committed a series of crimes that would altogether amount to me spending the rest of my life in prison. I won’t give you the satisfaction of jailing me, but I want to confess to those crimes anyway. Due to the nature of those crimes I'm first going to show you that I'm alone in my bedroom and that there’s nobody here who's threatening me or in any way forcing me to say these things.” 

Marlon gets up and approaches the camera. He unclasps it from its stand and sweeps the room, bends down to shoot under the bed, walks to the closet to film the inside, then does the same to the en suite bathroom. He goes back to place the camera on its stand before sitting down again. “I have a longstanding disagreement with my son Lucifer Nicholas Williams. Recently it got out of hand. To strike at him, I tried to set him up to be sentenced to jail. He isn’t guilty of any of the crimes I pointed at him, but I knew how I could make it look like he was. All, because he refused to bend to my will.”

Marlon pauses for a bit. He grabs the golden lighter and flips the lid open and close without looking at it. “First I made an anonymous call to the police about a decades-old murder of Brad Buckner. I claimed Lucifer was the murderer and spun a very convincing tale. He did not kill Buckner. He was home on leave from the army when it went down, visiting his older brother Michael. He was at home all night. The only reason I even remembered when it went down to begin with, is that Buckner was a bully and a disgusting piece of excuse for a human, who’d treated my children abysmally and tried to seduce my underage, teenage daughter. When I heard about Buckner’s demise I popped champagne to celebrate. If my kids remember the events around this time, my children Michael, Castiel, Hannah, and Hester, will all be able to testify that Lucifer was at home the night Buckner was attacked. So could Naomi Davies, their former nanny and current chief of staff, as well as my head chef Baptisté. Lucifer ate in the kitchen, then hung out in one of the common rooms with the siblings I mentioned, then locked himself in with Michael to talk more private matters. Like I said, it’s almost two decades ago, but if they even remember this Friday, this is what they’ll be able to tell you.”

_Marlon, you sly fucker. Even if they don’t remember, they know what to say now. Anyone ever told you you’re awesome?_

“My second crime was to impersonate my oldest son, reporting his car as stolen. Michael had let Lucifer’s husband, Dean Winchester Williams, borrow the car. I knew Lucifer and Dean would be travelling in it together, so I reported the car as stolen to get them into trouble.”

“Lastly, Lucifer did not kidnap Michael. _I_ did. I drugged him to get him down in the cellars where I locked him into our wine cellar. I kept him fed and supplied with necessities, and prevented my staff from going down there. I had every intention of setting him free, should Lucifer be caught, once I’d blackmailed him to testify against Lucifer. Alas, Michael escaped. I’ve been waiting for you to come arrest me, but it seems like Michael have stayed abroad, keeping quiet about it to help our family save face. There’s no reason for that. I did it. I have been blinded by my own anger at Lucifer. My play failed. I’m taking my punishment. Hence…” Marlon makes a gesture at the plastic. “In respect for the people who will have to clean up after me.”

Marlon turns to look at the clock on the wall. “Seems we’re running out of time…” He faces the camera again. “Back to talking to my sons then, I suppose. Boys, this is goodbye. I’m stepping down. I have full confidence that you’ll care for my legacy and our family. Take care of your sisters. I would like to be buried beside your mother in the family grave. And if it’s not too much to ask, I’d like to be buried in that suit.” He points towards a suit he’s prepared, hanging on a hook on the wall on the side of the room that isn’t covered with plastic. “Don’t bother with any jewellery. It’s unnecessary. I’d like an open casket funeral so the girls can say their goodbyes. The casket has been chosen and paid for already, so has most of the funeral arrangements. All you have to do is set a date and decide whether to make it small and private or to let the rabble join in, pretending to mourn me.” He smirks lopsidedly like he finds the notion of people mourning him funny. Then he runs his hand through his hair again. “I guess this is it.” He takes a remote from his pocket, hits a button and music starts playing. It’s ‘[Walking in my shoes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHuf0gmq-A4)’ by Depeche Mode. He drops the remote carelessly to the floor. “Let me just adjust the camera…” he gets up, approaches the camera, bends down to look straight into it for a closeup. For a moment all the sadness and fatigue in his face is gone and his eyes are razor sharp. “Well done, son. I used my time wisely. I hope you’ll follow in my footsteps,” he says and winks. Then he straightens up and steps behind the camera for a beat. The camera is angled downward a bit more and moved a bit closer to the chair.

He comes back in view, pockets his wallet, sits down, grabs the revolver and looks down on his chest.

In the conference room the brothers all stir, coming to the realisation that this is really happening. “Jesus, oh God, no,” Mike whispers, recoiling in his seat. Gabe’s covering his face with a hand, eyes wide and horrified. Nick’s sitting up straighter with his nostrils flaring. Cas sits very still, chin high, face serious, fully focused―looking like he’s determined to watch―while Meg closes her eyes and averts her face, hiding behind Cas’ shoulder.

Marlon touches his chest, finding the place where his heart is located, puts the revolver’s muzzle to the point, looks up at the camera… No. Behind the camera. He’s definitely looking to the side of the camera, but at what?

**BANG!!!**

Marlon’s body jerks as the bullet tears through him. Eyes fly open in surprise, wide and grey. He tips off of the chair, landing on his back. The entry hole isn’t huge, but a puddle of blood quickly spreads under him and the plastic over the wall and door is sprayed with blood. On the TV screen Sherlock falls off a building. The music playing in the background seem deafening in the shell-shocked void left after witnessing Marlon’s suicide.

_Now I'm not looking for absolution_   
_Forgiveness for the things I do_   
_But before you come to any conclusions_   
_Try walking in my shoes_   
_Try walking in my shoes_

_You'll stumble in my footsteps_   
_Keep the same appointments I kept_   
_If you try walking in my shoes_   
_If you try walking in my shoes_

Theatrics. 

The Williams family fucking lives for it.

This, this was fucking masterful. Clearing Nick’s name, providing the story for them to stick to and handing it to them before the police could get the video and claim it as evidence. He made sure nobody’s blamed for forcing him to do this, made sure there’s no doubt as to his identity, offering his own piece of reconciliation, taking the fucking cleaning staff into consideration, and choosing his own outro. All perfectly timed to Sherlock’s fall.

_It’s gotta mean something, right? It’s **gotta**!_

Dean’s a 100% sure that last line was for him. But what does it mean? Had he misunderstood Dean and just taken control of _how_ he died? Had he failed to find a doppelganger and…

_NONONONONO!!! He’s not dead! He’s **not**!_

Dean’s brain rejects what it’s seeing. There had been no doubt that it was Marlon talking to the camera, and he’d been adamant to show that he was alone in the room. He was sitting with his back towards the door, meaning nobody could walk in or out without being caught by the camera. The dead body on the floor _has_ to be him. ( _NO!_ ) But what had he been looking at right before he died?

Michael sniffles. He looks fucking destroyed. Mike, who’ll be turned on by seeing Nick drenched in blood as long as it isn’t Nick’s, who’ll not be put off even if it’s he himself bleeding all over, but who can’t handle a simple gash in Dean’s arm, has just witnessed the suicide of somebody he loves. Dean scoots his chair closer and tugs Mike in for a hug, letting him hide his face by Dean’s shoulder and cry while Dean silently holds him and pets his hair soothingly while he keeps watching the screen. Gabe’s also crying, hand pressed over his mouth, eyes closed and shoulders shaking. Nick’s expression is carefully neutral. Cas’ is stoic, but his eyes are wide and full of emotion.

Dean remembers Marlon asking Dean to be offered the same boon as Isobel, to be looked in the eyes while he died. He’s forced his sons to do just that. _They_ were the ones who’d condemned him to death. Not his daughters. As such, this was a fair fucking deal.

Nobody says anything. Meg still keeps her face hidden behind Cas’ shoulder, not looking at the dead body with the increasingly big pool of blood underneath it. Dean doesn’t fault Gabe or Mike for crying, even though they’d agreed to off Marlon. They’re tough, awesome guys. But being faced with violent deaths, especially when you care about the person… if fucks you up. Dean and Nick, they’re used to it. Dean hopes Gabe, Mike, and Cas (and Meg) will never have to get used to it.

_He’s not dead. This is a trick. A trick I can’t figure out how it’s done right now._

Dean squishes his cig in the ashtray and lights a new one straight away, all without letting go of Mike with his other hand. Minutes ticks by. They’re waiting. Waiting for what will happen next. Nick too lights a cigarette the moment his has burned down to the filter. The room itself seems to hold his breath.

“Oh my god!” It’s Lawrence voice on the video. Then a moment later, more distant, “Naomi? This is Lawrence. Marlon just shot himself in his bedroom.” Another moment and Naomi opens the door and makes a dismayed sound with a look of horror on her face.

The video suddenly cuts out and Lawrence is back on the screen. “The video continues for another twenty minutes before a police officer notices it’s still recording. I’ve emailed it to you, Castiel and Michael, in case you want to scrutinize how the paramedics and the police handled it when they came to the scene.”

“Much appreciated,” Castiel offers solemnly. 

Michael sits up straight and dries his tears, mustering all the dignity he can. “Have our sisters been notified?”

“Yes. But as per Marlon’s request, I haven’t shown them this.”

“Good. We’re all in France right now. We’ll fly in as soon as we can and we’ll be home within 24 hours. Do you have anything else to say before we conclude this?”

“No. I don’t.”

“In that case, thank you, Lawrence. I’ll give you a call as soon as we land.”

* * *

Once again, Dean boards another flight to America. This time they all fly by Cas’ private jet. Meg stays behind with Balt’s dogs. Gabe knocks himself out with sleeping pills, and Mave is sedated in the bedroom in the plane.

Cas, Mike, Dean, and Nick sit in the bar area. Nick and Mike have taken the couch, where Mike’s leaned on Nick’s chest, lying between his legs, and Nick pets him continuously. Nick hasn’t spoken many words since he saw Marlon pull the trigger. He’s shown a complete lack of emotion that only tells Dean he’s doing the stone-wall thing where he’s having a rage storm of emotions within. Cas sits in an armchair beside the low table in front of the couch, sipping a drink, and Dean’s on a bar stool by the bar rewatching the full scene including paramedics and cops for the billionth time on his phone. He’s drinking a Fanta, but is completely jacked up on painkillers and tranqs.

“Will you stop watching that shit, you morbid fuckface? Mikey flinches every time the gun goes off,” Nick suddenly snipes at Dean. 

“I can put on headphones?” Dean suggests. Being high doesn’t equal being diplomatic. 

“No. Fucking _stop_. Why do you have to watch anyway?”

“I presume he's trying to figure out what father meant by ‘following in his footsteps’. That seemed out of place,” Cas suggests. 

“I don’t give a shit. Just stop.”

“I'm okay,” Mike mumbles. He really isn't. 

“Fine.” Dean pockets his phone, takes his Fanta and lumbers over to sit opposite Cas in the other armchair. He puts his drink on the table, digs up his cigarettes, lights one, puts it in the ashtray and fastens his seatbelt before taking the cigarette again. Flying private jets has its perks. 

He’s working under the presumption that Marlon faked his death and is desperately trying to understand how he did it. He’s simply refusing to accept that Marlon is gone. Marlon had gone to such lengths to ensure nobody will question that the body in his bedroom is his, that it _can’t_ be. That’s why he's obsessively watching it over and over, looking for clues for how the magician did his trick. It makes him question things like why Marlon pocketed his wallet before he shot himself, or why it had to be that particular suit he wanted to be buried in. He can’t discuss this with the others, for apparent reasons. 

He thinks of how Marlon had made a pass at him when he thought he was going to die. Not for the first time he wonders, what it is about him that attracts the Williams so much. He digs in one of his combat pants’ pockets and comes up with his diamond, lifts it to his face and blows smoke on its surface before dragging it over his lips. Nick scowls when he sees it, but doesn’t say anything. 

“Oy, so… What is it about me y'all love so much? I don’t get it,” Dean asks, peering at the diamond as if it held the answers. The stupid song Marlon had chosen keeps playing on a loop in his head. _Try walking in my shoes, Try walking in my shoes, You'll stumble in my footsteps..._

_It has to mean something_ more. _It has to!_

“You’re intelligent and crafty. You don’t hesitate to tackle tough tasks or put yourself at risk. You often think outside of the given parameters. You adapt to changes instead of getting stuck in bitterness,” Cas drones, catching all of their attention. “You’re motivated and positive and refuse to give up. You've got integrity and honour. When you do something wrong, you take your punishment and accept the consequences. You'll forgive when someone else does the same, making you fair. When you draw the line, you make it clear why and what consequences are if the line is crossed. You’re goofy and playful while retaining a darker side that promises that life with you in it will be histrionic and suspenseful. You’re loyal. You’re also an expert liar. A trait we all appreciate as long as it isn’t directed at us. ...Plus, you’re prurient,” Cas finishes, lips curling in a smirk.

“Our little brother hit the nail with that description. It sums it all up neatly,” Nick says, staring coldly at Cas.

“Yes. Exactly all that,” Mike agrees.

Dean feels really fucking emotional. _Nothing_ about that had been about his looks. He _knows_ he’s hot. But this… he’s not sure how to take this in. Especially since the question was directed at Nick and Mike, not Cas. Cas and he are just friends. This, this… 

Dean stares down at the diamond in his hand and his lips wobble traitorously.

Mike pushes himself up and away from Nick only to drop himself into Dean’s lap and wind his arms around him. The moment Nick’s no longer covered by Mike, Cas grabs his drink and moves to the other side of the aisle to sit on a bar stool as far away from Nick as possible without leaving the room.

Dean ignores the complicated sibling infighting in favour of seeking comfort in Mike’s warmth.

* * *

Nick comes along as emotional support for his siblings as the will is read. He’s holding Hannah’s hand, leaning on her shoulder and sitting slouched in his chair, both legs slung over one armrest. Anna has barely stopped crying since the word of Marlon’s death reached her. Gabe cracking jokes about Marlon always needing the last word didn’t cheer her up, funnily enough. She’s glued to Cas side, just like Hester’s keeping close to Mike, but acting a lot more stoic in her mourning. Dean finds it interesting that despite the girls being so close with each other, they split up to seek shelter with their older brothers instead of each other. Maybe that too is due to how they’re raised. Women are to be protected, spoiled, and sheltered, so they’re drawn to the man who can offer the type of comfort most suited to their needs. None of them needs Gabe’s overly cheery attitude and bad jokes. Dean sees through it, though. There’s desperation in his eyes, strain in the muscles in his face. He’s self-comforting with humour. Dean’s chosen to sit beside him, snigger at his jokes and frequently touch him in a friendly manner.

Dean’s glad Nick never did something stupid to the lawyer. He _likes_ Lawrence. Lawrence is a foodie, which you’d never guess by looking at him. He’s 5’10” and slim like a skeleton. His posture is dignified. He wears a black coat and walks with a cane. He manages to appear kindly and patient while at the same time wearing an aura of intelligence and badassery. He’s got three younger brothers he barely speaks with. One’s working with agriculture in Africa, trying to end famine. He’s very sick and has to breathe through an oxygen tank, but his brain’s sharp as ever, according to Lawrence. Another brother’s a virologist, and the youngest a General. Dean’s bonded with Lawrence over burgers earlier today, telling him of his own brother and how he grew up.

Now Lawrence is reading the will. It’s long and tedious due to the sheer vastness of Marlon’s holdings. Hannah gets nothing, but the percentage of liquid assets that equals what she _should_ have gotten, is bequeathed to Cas, words composed in such way that it leaves no doubt that it’s meant for Hannah.

“...And to my son Lucifer Nicholas Williams, I leave―”

“I was disowned,” Nick interrupts with a frown. “When did he change that?”

Lawrence looks up from the will to meet Nick’s gaze. “Lucifer. Your father did never truly disown you. He only changed his will so none of your inheritance would include business ventures you have no interest in pursuing.”

For a couple of heartbeats Nick looks like he’s been stabbed, then he lowers his gaze and makes an arrogant hand gesture for Lawrence to go on. 

_Woah. That sure as hell explains why Mike remembered Nick’s disownment to be much swifter than Hannah’s._

“...the liquid assets in the bank account…” Lawrence rattles off two bank account numbers in two different banks, “...as well as the property lot…” Lawrence lists a piece of land here on Long Island that currently holds an abandoned plant nursery with an attached store. Nick also gets an equal share of the family estate. 

Nick’s nostrils flare continuously, and he looks somewhere between stony-faced murder and trying not to cry.

Afterwards, he’s back to wearing the same bored expression he’s had since Marlon pulled the trigger. He barely speaks.

Nick won’t allow any comfort or touches that are aimed at him, but will allow it if it’s needed from him. He’ll hug Anna and coo reassuringly into her hair, but will shrug Mike’s hand off his shoulder. Dean’s barely allowed to come within touching distance, but when Mike―out of sight from his sisters―is on the verge of tears, Nick promptly tugs him in for a hug. The only one he does allow unlimited cuddles of any kind, is Mavis. A cigarette hangs from his lips at all times. Sometimes it’s unlit, but he’s chain smoking worse than ever before.

They all stay at the estate in wait for the funeral, and Dean’s foaming at the bit to get into Marlon’s bedroom, currently sealed off by law enforcement. He offers to do the cleanup, an offer all the siblings gratefully agree to. All so he can have a first chance to look for clues, desperate to find proof that the man currently in a morgue, _isn’t_ his ‘papa’…

It can’t be. It just fucking _can’t_!

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Link to the song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHuf0gmq-A4).
> 
> Oh and a warning, next chapter takes a turn for the very dark. It'll correct itself in the chapter after that. I'm afraid I was very affected by finding out about my dad's leukemia when I wrote that chapter.


	101. Murphy’s Law On Horseback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, it'll be obvious how frail Dean's grasp on his self-confidence is as we'll take a plummet into darkness. I'm afraid my own pain finding out about dad's cancer influenced this chapter heavily. But don't worry, this is a temporary dip into despair. 
> 
> For all you non-horse people out there; The horses in this chapter aren't ill-tempered or "bad horses". What happens happens because Dean doesn't know how to read their body language. Ignorance is what's causing the woes.
> 
> For you horse people out there; Feel free to tick off the long list of faults committed. ;)
> 
> Also noteworthy, Dean’s fear in this chapter isn’t _quite_ phobia, but with everything that happens, he runs the risk of developing one if left 'untreated'. The emotional state he's in when it happens, is what causes his possibly OOC reaction.
> 
> Also, I could have named this chapter _People In Shock Doing Things That Make No Sense_ ;D

* * *

# Murphy’s Law On Horseback

Nothing. Fucking _nothing_.

Dean pockets Marlon’s golden lighter bitterly. Any of the siblings want it they can fucking fight him for it. He can’t find any indication that things are anything but what they appear to be. He’s close to a fucking panic attack because that means Marlon really is dead but he can’t be dead because Dean had told him not to be and _Oh God_ what if he really is dead and― 

Dean has to breathe deeply to calm himself down, staring down at the huge, dark, dried puddle of blood. So much blood.

In this moment he fucking _hates_ Nick. Because Nick’s done such a thorough job of cracking up Dean’s walls, getting him out of denial and in touch with his emotions and it fucking _sucks_. When Ennis died it had hit him hard, but he’d been able to distance himself, only crying silent manly tears into his pillow. Now he feels like a raw wound, bleeding and infected. He wants to curl up into a ball and cry his eyes out. 

He can’t. 

He can’t, because nobody can know how close Marlon really got, in such a few meetings.

Dean had told Marlon that he couldn’t just slap a diamond collar around his neck and lead him around. But that’s exactly what had happened. He’d been warned that Marlon would put his hand down his pants and squeeze his balls, and he wouldn’t know he was being groped until the pain started.

Well, it’s fucking started, that’s for sure. 

He can’t ask the Williams for comfort, can’t show them how badly he’s breaking inside. He turned traitor, and whether Marlon found a body double or not, the manner of his death is a direct consequence of Dean’s betrayal.

Dean leaves the room long enough to find their supply of medicine. He pops two tranqs and three painkillers without a second thought, swallowing it down with tap water. Then he goes back and stares at the room for a bit longer, as if the answer would suddenly appear.

It doesn’t.

They’d been to the morgue earlier today since one of the girls had requested to be allowed to identify Marlon. As if it was needed. Dean had walked last when they piled in, and the coroner had stopped him, saying it was for family only. Dean had asked him if he was sure that it was really Marlon and had been given an almost dirty, definitely unprofessional, look. ‘ _His suicide was taped and he had his ID in his pocket. Of course I’m sure._ ’ Cas had been the one to note that Dean wasn’t in the room with them and had come to get him. Fume practically coming out of his ears when he realised _why_ Dean wasn’t in the room with the rest of them.

Dean can only stand in the back to see. Again, there’s no emotional closeness to validate a closer inspection. Just like he couldn’t ask for the cover to be pulled back so he could see Marlon’s dick. Nobody knows he’s ogled Marlon shamelessly in the shower and he definitely doesn’t want to call attention to that Marlon might not be Marlon. It’s hard, with a corpse. Because once the soul has left the body, it’s no longer that person. It’s possible to tell identical twins apart by mannerism alone. But dead? One would need a DNA test.

At least he’s got the answer to why Marlon pocketed his wallet. People who hadn’t seen him on his place of death would be handling his corpse. An ID would discourage further investigation of his identity. And if the man in the morgue was a doppelganger, then picking out a suit in advance would fit the bill too, making sure the suit was tailored to him, not to Marlon, as a misfit would call attention to something being amiss.

But right now, in Marlon’s fucking bedroom, Dean can no longer see how it couldn’t have been Marlon dead in that morgue, and he’s breaking to pieces internally.

There’s a knock on the door and Naomi enters. She very studiously avoids looking at the dried blood on the floor. “Hi, Dean. I heard you’d volunteered with the cleaning.”

“Yeah. Figured I’d spare anyone closer to him and avoid having strangers in here.”

“That’s very kind of you. I was wondering if you’d like some help?”

Dean studies Naomi. She’s giving him a kind smile, the lines around her eyes strained. She’d worked for Marlon for four fucking decades, practically acting mother to his kids, and she’d been the first to have to see him dead in real life. He shakes his head. “No, but…” The siblings were all comforting each other… “With the risk of stepping out of line here…” He approaches her. “Naomi?”

“Yes?”

He walks through the door, taking her along, and closes the door so the blood isn’t visible. “What about you? Can I…?” he hugs her. It’s a gamble. He’s the one needing a hug, but… “How are you feeling in all this?”

She reciprocates the hug. Almost forty years of service. Stern taskmaster or not, choosing his kids before him or not, there must be affection there, must be grief.

He’s right. She comes undone so easily, like she couldn’t in front of the Williams kids or the staff she’s responsible for. Selfishly he lets her cry, hugging her and comforting her because he needs it. When she’s cried herself dry they move to her office to talk over a cup of tea. It’s easier, then, because the tranqs and painkillers have hit like a train. He thinks Naomi notices that he’s high, but she says nothing about it. Instead, she talks about Marlon and how she feels about the loss of her hard, fair, and very, very private boss.

One and a half hours later he’s back in the bedroom with a big garbage bag, ready to begin. He tears the plastic of the walls and door first, uncovering two bookcases as well. Next goes the plastic over the desk. Lastly the floor. He starts tearing the plastic away, then halts to move the chair out of the way. It’s a cheap wooden chair and it’s going in the trash. Ain’t nobody scrubbing that one. With the chair out of the way, he can tear the rest of the plastic off. As he rips the plastic away from where the chair had been he notices a dusty footprint right underneath. He stops and looks around the room. The rest of the room is clean. “...try walking in my shoes…” he hums. Bemused, and too high to be excessively emotionally involved, he uncovers another bit of floor just to see another footprint. “You hope I’ll follow in your― Sonnova bitch.” 

Dean rips the rest of the plastic off the floor with his heart hammering in hopeful excitement. Just like he suspected, starting from under where the chair had been there’s a dusty trail of footprints leading to one of the bookcases. He puts his feet in them and steps all the way up to the bookcase. Because Marlon’s taller than him he stands on his toes and looks at what he sees straight ahead. There, squeezed in between law books are two CDs, the Sherlock season 3 DVD, and a couple of other books that look out of place. The CDs are Depeche Mode - Live in Berlin, and American IV: Ain’t No Grave by Johnny Cash. The books are travel guides. “You sonnova bitch.” Now Dean’s 50% certain Marlon’s alive. Season 3 is where Sherlock comes back from the dead. Travel guides. ‘The most beautiful lakes in Europe’ pulled out just a bit more than all the rest. Hope’s restored. He’s still not sure _how_ Marlon would have pulled it off. But Dean’s gonna find the fucker and ask.

_If_ he’s alive.

* * *

He reads the travel guides cooped up in the sub-level of the cellar after having removed the footprints and the ‘clues’. It’s boring reading, outside of his interest sphere. He’s mostly looking for any indication as to where Marlon could have gone. The books are pristine. No dog ears, smudges, scribbles, or anything else to say that ‘this is where I’m heading’. The only common denominator he can find are bodies of freshwater. Lakes. Aside from the book with European lakes, the travel guides are about places all over the globe, on every fucking continent. “How do you expect me to find you, papa? _How_?”

He climbs up to the used level of the cellar, finds himself a blanket, then climbs down again. He makes his way to the place where Isobel is buried, not too far from the other skeleton. He’d expected it to stink in this part of the tunnel. It doesn’t. It just smells earthy. Either he packed the hole in the wall really well or the rats, worms, and bugs have done fast work of disposing of the corpse. Earth to earth, dust to dust and all that.

He sits down on the opposite wall of Isobel’s unholy grave and drapes the blanket around himself. “Should I’ve brought flowers?” The opposite wall doesn’t answer. “It’d just make it look conspicuous, you know? If I dropped a bunch of flowers down here.” A rat cautiously comes into the ring of light cast by his headlamp, sniffing the air in his direction. He watches it but keeps talking to Isobel. “You know, I forgot to ask you if you’re religious. Maybe I should have said a prayer for ya? I dunno. Besides, I dunno what god you put your faith in. I don’t believe in gods myself, but it feels like I’d fuck things up more if I prayed for ya and sent the prayer to the wrong receiver, ya know?” He unfolds a leg and the rat scampers away. “Anyway, if your chosen deity exists and is worthy his worship, I’m sure he’s found your soul and sorted it into the right house by now… if not, whelp, sucks to be you.” He stares at the wall that remains stubbornly quiet. “Hey fuck you! Don’t judge me. You’d done the same to protect the people you love. I coulda let my lion have ya and then it woulda been ten times worse for ya. You keep that attitude up you’re gonna make me regret sayin’ no to ‘im.”

Apparently, walls can glare accusingly at you.

“Yeah, yeah. You got me. That’s a lie. Whatever. Now, will you shut up so I can do what I came here to do?”

The rat comes back into view, cautiously nearing his boot, sniffing the air continuously. Dean sighs, takes his phone and headphones, puts the headphones on, opens Spotify and puts on the Depeche Mode live album Marlon had left behind. It has ‘Walkin in my shoes’ in it. Dean’s neither a fan of Depeche Mode nor live music recordings―that’s more Nick’s tastes―but maybe there’s another clue. He turns off his headlight, tugs the blanket closer around himself, hiding his phone inside the blanket, making the darkness so compact it’s a palpable thing. Now it’s just him, his ghosts, the music, and the rats.

At some point, he feels something touching him. He doesn’t move. He knows it’s a rat but some part of him kinda hopes it’s one of the dead people haunting him. _Come at me, I dare ya._

In his inebriated state, it doesn’t take long before he loses his sense of self and sense of the passage of time in the compact darkness.

* * *

It’s well past midnight when he comes up. Nick’s room is empty. He goes to Mike’s room to find Mike sleeping alone. His gut clenches in worry about Nick. He stands in the middle of the floor, looking at the door, deliberating if he should go find him.

“Dean…?” Mike asks sleepily, supporting himself on an elbow and blinking at Dean in the faint light provided by the night sky through the gaps in the curtains, bright in comparison to the void Dean’s been sitting in for the last six hours.

“Yeah…”

Mike extends a beckoning hand.

Dean sheds his clothes and comes to bed. Every piece of proof that Marlon’s alive is circumstantial, simple indices, whereas the proof that he’s dead is rock solid. Dean’s a mess of hope and doubt, verging on believing he’s just making any proof up because he can’t accept Marlon’s death. Mike grabs him and pulls him down as soon as he’s within range.

Nick might be AWOL but Mike’s need for him right now is apparent, and while making love his thoughts temporarily stop spinning and narrow down to Mike’s solid body and needy mouth.

* * *

Nick dodges both Dean and Mike during nights, consistently choosing to sleep in whatever room they don’t, only keeping Mavis as his constant companion. The mystery of where he spends most of his days turns out not to be so mysterious. He’s around the estate grounds. In the garden, or by the stables, or riding or walking in the forest or pastures. Except for avoiding closeness and company, he acts like his normal self when he’s around people, and he keeps any appointment set. Cas and Mike are busy working because when word got out that Marlon’s dead, their stocks began to fall, and then someone, presumably a cop, leaked to the press that Marlon had confessed to Mike’s kidnapping, creating a fucking mess by doing so. Dean tries leaving the grounds, wanting to visit Sam, only to be turned back by the press waiting by the gates. He could leave through another route but instead ends up going back down into his caves, mapping them out. He feels lost and drifting. The chaos Marlon’s death caused in the business world leaves Cas and Mike too stressed to let him tag along and the last thing he wants to be, is a burden, so he doesn’t insist. Gabe spends a lot of time away, presumably with his gang of misfits. Hannah stays with Roman, and Anna and Hester… well. Dean doesn’t really know them, and feels like an intruder around them.

He feels like nobody notices that he’s left floundering. Maybe it’s for the best. The way he’s munching pills at the moment, nobody should want him around anyway.

There are too many thoughts and too little to distract himself with.

He wishes Nick would come around and play, mottling his skin with bruises, making his throat raw from screaming, maybe even…

The second time he cuts himself the cut is shorter, but feels fucking fantastic. He swears to himself he’s just trying to gauge if he could subject himself to having Nick carve wings on his back, but he knows the answer already. He can. And he wants to. He easily hides the second cut from Mike by wrapping a bandage around his lower arm, claiming it is to protect the stitched slash from dirt when he’s exploring the caves. Then comes the third cut with its purifying pain and the burst of endorphins. But hey. At least he’s not _drinking_. Not that it matters since he doesn’t get to interact with Mavis much and what’s the fucking point again?

Another day and another trip down to the cellars alone.

For once he manages to keep somewhat track of time, emerging to eat lunch. When did he last eat? Not important. It’s not like he’s hungry anyway. He makes his way to the kitchen to find Anna and Hester sitting there, poking in food that probably smells delicious but mostly makes him nauseous. He almost turns around and leaves when he spots them, but Baptisté is in the kitchen and manages to stop him in his tracks, and before he knows what happened he’s sitting in a chair by the table with some kind of omelette served to him.

Anna and Hester say hello, but they’re not talking much and the silence is stifling.

“Hey. You guys afraid of the dark?”

Anna scoffs. “Pfft. No. We’re not twelve, Dean.”

He smirks. “Alright. How about tight spaces, rats, or bugs?”

“I wouldn’t want to share a bed with them, but afraid? No,” Hester answers in bemusement.

“Far out. Y’all want to see something really awesome? You’ll have to change clothes first, though. Y’all be real pretty in those getups, but y’all gonna get dirty if you wear that. And I don’t mean the fun kind of dirty,” Dean waggles his eyebrows meaningfully.

He gets amused snorts from both of them. “What is it you’re going to show us?” Hester asks, interest piqued.

“It’s a secret. Top super secret. I won’t tell ya. You wanna know, you have to come see for yourselves. It’s like… like a club only for the brave, you feel me?”

That coaxes laughter from the both of them. “What? You mean the Boys acting like toddlers club?” Hester jokes sarcastically.

Dean snaps his fingers and points at her while beaming enthusiastically. “Yes! That’s it! You in or not?”

The girls laugh again and share a look, then turn towards him and nods. 

“Okay.”  
“Okay.”

_Aw, that’s cute. They’re doing the sibling sync thing._

“Great! We’ll be going as soon as I’ve finished eating,” he says and shovels food into his mouth. It grows in his mouth and makes his stomach turn. He opens his mouth and lets it all fall out on the plate again. “There. All done.”

“Eew. Gross,” Hester says, scrunching up her face and giggling along with Anna.

“Hey. You’re about to be initiated into the B.A.T. club. You’ll have to be able to handle it. Hell, you’ll have to act like it,” he says, gesturing at Hester’s plate with a cheeky twinkle in his eyes.

She gives him a dubious look before promptly shovelling in a big scoop of food in her mouth, chewing twice then opening her mouth to push it out to land with a ‘ _splot_ ’ on her plate.

“Perfect! Kodak moment!” Dean praises and Anna laughs. Dean turns towards Anna. “Now, you too. There are customs that have to be observed. Come on,” he urges and gestures towards her plate. It’s not like any of them are eating anyway. Anna barely stops giggling long enough to do it, but she too manages to perform the food spitting. “That was fantastic!” Dean praises. “Bet you can fucking feel your balls dropping as we speak! Now, come on. Y’all gotta change clothes. Leave your plates. Y’all got servants. Let them serve!” He knows he’s acting like a giant knob, but it’s fucking worth it to make them laugh, so he puts on a show.

Part of him doesn’t want to show them _his_ caves. But he’s fucking lonely and he doesn’t do lonely well. While they get changed into clothes that fit his instructions he pops another pain pill and another tranq, then digs up some more equipment. They’ll have to share what he’s got. It’ll do, though.

Turns out, taking the girls down into the tunnels is fucking hilarious. So maybe he’s high and amps up the dramatics a bit. Like when they’re closing in on the part where Isobel’s buried.

“So these are my tunnels. Only members of the B.A.T. club may enter. Nicky’s been here but he ain’t a fan. So this far, it’s only me and Mr. Crackhead that hold membership. Which basically makes me B.A.T. man. Heh.”

The girls snigger. “Mr. Crackhead?” Anna asks.

“Yeah. He lives down here. Let me introduce you.” Dean does a dramatic sweep with his flashlight, shining his light on the skeleton.

Anna shrieks, making Hester yelp in fright too. Dean cackles. 

“Oh, my God! Is that a real skeleton?”

“Yup,” Dean answers proudly, popping the P. Anna approaches cautiously and squats down to inspect with her own flashlight. “Mr. Crackhead. Get it? Cuz his head is cracked?” Dean explains, nodding enthusiastically with raised brows.

“You’re a freaking dork,” Hester laughs.

Anna pokes at the skeleton then jumps back with another shriek as a rat scuttles out from underneath the rib cage. Dean cackles again and Anna has nervous giggle fit, prompting Hester to join in the laughter.

They spend a lot of time down in the tunnels. He turns them around after the skeleton because he doesn’t want them to get too close to Isobel’s grave. Instead, he takes them down to the cave. It’s not something you should do while high. How the hell they trust him enough to belly crawl their way after him down to the cave eludes him. This isn’t completely safe. He makes sure to stress that point. No part of these tunnels are safe, but this portion especially, should never be explored alone. “This is a bit scary,” Hester admits while crawling down to Anna and Dean. “It feels like I could get stuck here.”

“Yup. You could. Don’t tell Nicky, but I did. I got stuck. I managed to get loose but it was a close call. I don’t want Nick to know because he said that if I died down here he’d kill me.” Another rewarding burst of giggles from both girls makes him preen inside. “This is as far as I’m gonna take you, by the way. I ain’t going deeper than this without all the proper equipment. But I wanted you to see this.” He helps pull Hester out of the hole and right herself. “Alright. Y’all can keep your flashlights off for a bit. I’m just gonna…” He shines his light on the ground by the hole until he finds what he’s looking for, then bends down and flicks the switch, hoping the batteries are working properly.

“Wow!”  
“Wow!”

Both girls stare in awe as the light arrangements spring to life, bathing the stalactites and stalagmites in subtle hues of purple, blue, and green. He’d gotten the idea from a photo in one of the books Nick had given him and decorated, but this is the first time he’d gotten a chance to show it off and he feels real fucking proud. “Awesome, right?”

“This is so cool! I can’t believe this was all right under our feet all this time!”

Dean decides he likes the girls. They’re suitably impressed. It makes him feel cool. Hence, they’re good in his book.

* * *

“Hey, Nicky! Wait up!”

Nick turns around and waits for Dean to catch up, then keeps walking as soon as Dean’s by his side. Their strides sync in that way that always feels good and right. But Nick’s shrouded in a drape of amicable politeness that just feels wrong. 

“Where’ve you been?” Dean asks.

“Down at the police station, lying my ass off.”

“How’d it go?”

“They didn’t keep me there, did they?” Nick sneers. He’s wearing some kind of protective vest, but it isn’t a bulletproof vest.

“Good thing. Any way I can avoid having to break ya out of jail is good in my book,” Dean says with a grin and winks.

Nick grunts, lips curving in a smirk. But his gaze is flat when he side-eyes Dean. They’re walking the trail towards the stable. Dean’s never been there. Mike had to go out of town over the weekend on a business trip, trying to calm the storm in the East coast offices. The girls, while Dean might not be a super fan of all of their views, have been good company, but now they’re away too and Dean feels loneliness pressing in on him. The worse it gets, the more he doubts that Marlon’s still alive. He feels so fucking vulnerable and small.

“Where’s Mave?”

“Sleeping in one of the empty stalls,” Nick answers and pushes the doors to the stable open. It’s a big, airy, modern stable. Not at all what Dean had imagined. To start with, it’s _clean_. Like, really clean. And the light inside is great, the ceiling high, the walls are white and the bars on the stalls are green. There’s an opening on every stall for the horses to poke their heads through. Not many do, but when Nick calls out “Horsies,” two heads pop out at the end of the right row. Both horses whinny in response, ear perked forward and eyes bright. There’s a whine in the stall beside Dean. He peeks inside. He’d expected straw, but the bedding is some kind of fine sawdust. Mavis stands on his hind legs with his front paws on the door.

“Hey, baby boy,” Dean coos and opens the door.

Mavis comes out and greets him with his usual exuberance. Dean pays him full attention for several minutes. He misses Mave too. He gets that Nick needs the little furball, what with the shitstorm of emotions he’s internalizing, but Dean needs him too. Both of them. He lifts Mave and cradles him to his chest then goes to see where Nick went to. Nick’s in one of the stalls with one of the horses that had whickered at him. He’s brushing the horse off. It doesn’t look like he really needs to. The huge, brown beast just stands there, content and calm and scary while Nick moves efficiently around it. Nick comes out and drops the brush in a box on the outside of the stall wall. All the stalls have one just like it. Dean peers down in it curiously to find a collection of brushes, sponges, containers and other odd pieces of equipment he doesn’t know what it’s for. Nick’s walking down to a door further down and Dean trails behind him, following him into the room. It’s a tack room. Rows upon rows of saddles, hooks with bridles and halters, horse blankets and things like it, all marked with names. Several with the same name. “Dude. How many saddles do you need for one horse?”

Nick hooks a bridle in the bend of his elbow and picks one saddle from the wall. He’s wearing a helmet he must have put it on as soon as he came in here. “One,” he answers curtly without looking at Dean.

“So why do ya got several?”

Nick passes him and goes back towards the horse he’d been preparing. “Different types of riding is ideally done with different saddles. We used to have spares when we competed too, in case one broke during the competition.”

“But each rider have what? Four horses per game. So why not use one of the other horses’ saddles?” Dean wants to know.

“Because we’re rich and don’t have to,” Nick snipes, then seems to regret his ugly tone. “Every saddle is fitted to the horse for best fit. Like with your shoes. You can use one of the right size, but you get the best support and risk chafing less if you have the shoes custom made for you,” Nick explains. By the time Dean catches up to him in the stall again, the horse―Cornelia, according to the nameplate on her stall―is already saddled and Nick’s putting on her bridle.

The cold way Nick’s treating Dean makes a big icy ball twist in his stomach. Nick’s answering when spoken to, by all means. His tone isn’t cold, but it’s without emotions, and he avoids eye contact as if Dean’s not really there. Not relevant. “Oy, Nicky. I was thinking we could do something today. Together.”

Nick leads the horse out of the stall and Dean backpedals away from the scary beast. Mavis begins to squirm and wiggle his tail the moment hooves clip clop on the concrete floor. Dean has to put him down or he’ll drop him. Mavis trots towards the exit excitedly. Nick stops and sighs. He tilts his head and watches Dean under hooded eyelids. “Well. I’m going out riding. You’re welcome to come along if you like,” he offers in a monotone, bored voice that distinctly says that he isn’t welcome at all. “Just pick a horse and follow me.”

“Which one?”

“Whichever. We own them all.” Cornelia turns her head and tries to scratch herself by rubbing against Nick’s belly. Nick grabs her by the cheek strap on the bridle and pulls her head up. “Corny, no,” he says and instead rubs her over the eye where she’d tried to scratch. Her head is ginormous. Nick’s a big man, but his head is about as big as her cheek.

Dean’s heart is beating faster. He looks around, takes two steps towards the closest stall across the aisle. The horse inside rolls its eyes at him and kicks the wall, making him jump back in fright.

“I wouldn’t recommend you pick that one. Topper isn’t a people’s person,” Nick says. When Dean looks back at him with wide eyes Nick’s smirking at him. The smirk as well as the look in his eyes are downright _mean_. “Not coming, huh? A shame,” he says lightly, then leads the horse past Dean and out of the stable. Mavis trots near its feet, obviously used to this and loving it. And why shouldn’t he? Running alongside a horse is awesome exercise. 

Dean’s left standing, watching Nick jump up in the saddle with no effort at all, then ride off at a walk with not so much as a backwards glance.

_Holy shit! Did that just happen?_

He’s stunned. Heart hammering in his chest. It feels like the ground just fell out under his feet. His fucking lips wobble.

_Shit. I ain’t gonna cry about that! Fuck! What’s **wrong** with me?_

_Why did he do that? What did I do?_

_Maybe it’s because I didn’t pay enough attention to his interest? Fuck, but he came down in the tunnels with me and he was scared shitless. And what did I do? Nothing. I shipped him off to fucking Saudi Arabia to ride by himself when he wanted me to come with. I haven’t bothered come down here at all, despite him spending so much time in the stables. I don’t know an Arabian from a polo pony to save my life. I could have tried harder. Done right by him. Shown some enthusiasm. Fuck._

He swallows, mouth dry and a lump in his throat. His lips wobble again.

He looks around. Pick a horse. Any horse but Topper. He walks along the rows peering into the stalls. They’re all equally huge and scary. His read on them isn’t worth shit. He goes back to Topper. “Hey, Topper, what does a mean horse look like?” He peers into the stall. Topper slicks his ears back and shows his eye whites. Dean takes a step closer and Topper raises his head, lips tense. He puts his hand on the bars of Topper’s stall and the horse whirls his butt Dean’s direction and kicks out with both legs to slam the wall where Dean’s standing. Dean recoils, adrenaline spiking. “Got it. No ears. Lots of eye whites. Thanks, Topper,” he jokes. He walks along the stalls one more time, looking in at each horse. Most don’t pay him any mind. One does that thing where it raises its head and pretends to have no ears. Mean horse. Dean avoids it. One pokes his head out of the stall and flares its nostrils at Dean. He’s hesitant to approach. Every horse is brown. Brown with black hair, brown with brown hair, dark brown. None stand out. By the end of the row, there’s another corridor. He hears a wicker coming from there so he turns the corner just to discover that there are two more aisles with stalls parallel to the first. “Aw, fuck. How many horses do they fucking have?”

In the new aisle, he finds a white one. It stands out by colour alone. Dean approaches. It looks up when he peers inside, then goes back to lipping at some hay lying on the bedding below an empty hay net. Dean reads the name plaque. Max. The plaque also holds a full name, a year of birth, the gender, and place of import. So Max is a ten-year-old gelding imported from Argentina. “Hey, Max? If I come in, will you kick me?”

The horse flicks one ear his way when he talks but doesn’t react further than that.

“You’re gonna have to move your butt or I can’t come in.” Dean reaches out in the opening in the bars and pushes at Max butt, ready to jump back. Max just moves away from the pressure and leaves lots of space in front of the door, all without stopping his lip-search for hay strands. “Okay, here it goes. I’m coming in.” Dean opens the door and takes a step inside. He’s apprehensive as fuck, heart rabbiting in his chest. But Nick had said, pick a horse and follow. When Max turns his head and looks at him again, he nearly bolts. But Max’ ears points towards him. That’s the opposite of slicking them to his head. That’s a good thing, right? _Right?_

Max takes a step around and comes closer when Dean closes the stall door. Dean plasters himself to the door, but Max simply snuffles him, friendly as can be. Dean relaxes somewhat (Hah!) and extends a hand to pet Max on the head. “Hi, Max. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Max steps away again and goes back to his hay search.

“Right. That went well.”

Nick had started by brushing. Dean slinks out again and looks in the box on the wall. Five different brushes. A sponge. Bandages. A salve. A weird, flat hook on a handle. The fuck is that thing for anyway? A thing with the same shape as one of the brushes, but metal, with pointy rings inside. He grabs one of the bigger brushes with long stiff straws at random, and goes back inside.

“Okay, Max. I’m gonna brush you now, okay?”

Max doesn't pay him any notice. He walks up to the horse and puts a hand on its back. Nothing scary happens. He drags the brush along the hair. Max shakes his skin underneath like he’s trying to displace a fly. “Harder?” Dean tries again, pushing harder. The shaking stops. Bolstered, he keeps brushing, one hand rested against Max's shoulder. The horse is warm and definitely not unpleasant. Everything’s going fine. He has no idea why he’s brushing the horse or where he’s supposed to brush. The fucker has hair all over, right? Is he supposed to brush the whole horse? It’s not like Max is dirty. He bends down a bit to be able to brush the belly. Max swishes his tail. _Swish, swish_. Dean keeps brushing. Max raises his head. Dean looks at him to see that he’s not doing the no-ear thing. But no. Max does a little toss with his nose and Dean stops what he’s doing. Max turns his head a fraction Dean’s way, but nothing else. After a moment Dean starts brushing again.

_BAM_

The bite comes so fast Dean doesn’t have time to react. A quick, _hard_ bite on the upper arm, just below the shoulder.

Dean yelps and drops the brush, shying back. “ _Ow!_ What the hell was that for? Jeezus.”

He expects Max to attack or, or _something_. He doesn’t. He just stands there, relaxed as ever. Dean’s arm throbs.

“Fuck! What did I do?” 

Max turns his head and looks at him, ears pointing forward as if he’s asking ‘What?’ innocently.

Dean’s lip wobbles and the lump in his throat is back. He rubs the spot he was bitten. “Couldn’t you, I dunno, growl or hiss or show yer teeth or somethin’? Give a guy a warning.”

Max goes back to nuzzling his bedding, now cleared of hay.

Carefully, Dean steps closer again, retrieves the brush, and then retreats quickly out of the stall with his heart beating frantically. He drops the brush in the box where he took it.

He’s way out of his depth. He’d have a better clue of what to do if they’d dropped him in a space station to repair whatever. He gets stuff like that. Mavis had been easier to understand. Dog body language is so much more alike human body language, according to him. (Or maybe it's because he understands predators better.) He’s sure Max had told him it was coming. He refuses to put the blame on the horse. But he still feels useless, worthless, floundering, lost and vulnerable. The tears that threaten to spill have nothing to do with the throbbing in his arm. Somewhere deep down he gets that. Not that it makes a difference now.

He knows the Williams employ staff to care for the horses but he hasn’t seen anyone here. Part of him is glad. Maybe they’d tell him to go away. He has no business being here.

But he fucking _needs_ Nick right now. 

He abandons Max and makes his way down the aisle, trying to find another horse. A dark brown horse, so dark it’s almost black, pokes her head out and whickers softly when he passes. He stops and approaches cautiously. He looks at her name plaque. She’s seventeen years old and named Indigo Marleen, ‘Indy’ for short. He huffs. “Okay, I’m gonna bet Marlon hid the second keycard in your stall.” She has a broken blaze and looks friendly enough. He reaches out apprehensively, noticing that his hand is shaking slightly and hating himself for it. She buffs his hand with her muzzle, ears perked forward. He pets her. “I ain’t gonna brush ya,” he informs her. 

He opens the door and steps inside. She backs up enough to let him in before lowering her head and pressing it to his belly. “Hey, ho. What are you doing? Yeah, okay. Scratches. I can do that. This good?”

On the wall behind her, there’s a diploma and a photograph. He pushes at her hoping she’ll move out of the way. She does, but follows, snuffling and lipping at his hair as he makes his way to the wall. The diploma is in Portuguese and drilled to the wall, but the photo… It’s not of her. The horse in the picture has a much broader neck and, well, is well endowed enough to make it clear that it ain't a girl. On its back the rider grins at the camera, holding a trophy cup. It’s Marlon. A much, much younger Marlon. In his late twenties or early thirties perhaps. Dean’s heart aches in the strange way it does when you’re nostalgic over events you never got to share. “Can we guess that’s your granddad or somethin’? And I bet his name was Blue Marlin.” 

Dean reaches out to take the picture frame from the wall. Its frame is made of plastic, not glass. It sits like it’s glued into place, but when Dean twists it instead of pulling, it clicks loose. He turns it over to find a holder for a keycard. “Hah! I knew it! Hey will you stop that?” He makes a wide hand gesture to get the overly inquisitive horse off his back from where she’s lipping at his hair. She shies backwards and throws her head up. For a beat, cold dread runs down his spine. But she just lowers her head again, ears perked forward. “Yeah, okay,” he says, not knowing what is okay, but whatever. He rehangs the picture. It clicks back in place with ease.

He leaves the stall and she tries to walk out behind him, forcing her to push her in the chest to get her to back up. “Jeezus, lady. Eager much?”

He finds another tack room in the end of this aisle, easily finds her stuff, then deliberates which one of her three saddles to pick, then takes one of the six (six!) bridles randomly. He carries it back to her stall and enters, drops the bridle on the ground and throws the saddle over her back. The blanket under it gets folded weirdly. He has to pull and shift the saddle around to get it into place. Marlin lips at his pant pockets while he’s working. “Hey, stop it. Whatever you’re lookin’ for I ain’t got it. ...Unless you’re lookin’ for cigarettes. Heh.” He pulls down the cinch and she takes a deep breath and stands perfectly still, stopping her inspection of his pockets. He has to go around and reach for the cinch, feeling more than a little trepidation as he bends down to reach under her belly, but nothing happens.

He tries to pull the cinch up but it’s fucking hard. “Fuck, Marlin. I coulda sworn you weren’t this fat a moment ago.”

It takes him five fucking minutes to figure out where the cinch is supposed to go and how to fasten it. By the time he’s done he’s sweating from the strain. He _tried_ to fasten the cinch in the old grooves by the buckles, but it's fucking impossible. “You better start watching your weight. You've gone fat since they last used this saddle on ya.” On top of that, once he’s fastened the saddle properly (Hah!) there’s a mysterious double strap hanging from her belly, dragging on the floor. He’s 99% sure it isn’t supposed to do that. He can’t find where they're supposed to go so he gives up and just ties them to a knot hanging as close to her belly as possible. Marlin keeps lipping at him while he works. 

Marlin’s makes him nervous since she’s so mouthy. But she’s like an overgrown lapdog. Maybe he can’t read horses for shit, but her ears are perked forward most of the time and she isn’t nipping at him, she’s rubbing her upper lip on him, trying to go through his pockets, or sticking her head at him like she’s begging for scratches.

The bridle is one big messy tangle when he takes it up from the ground. He struggles to untangle it, lips wobbling time after time. He’s fucking close to tears and feels like a giant baby for it. The first time he tries putting it on Marlin sticks her head up all the time, making it next to impossible. When he finally manages he realises he’s put it upside down, making it impossible to fix the straps properly. “Fuck sake. How hard can it be? Stick the bit in the mouth and pull the rest over the head.”

But no. It’s more to it than that. The bit in itself is an advanced contraption with a bar with a bend in the middle, another piece with two joints, and a chain. The jointed bit has rings and the bar has bars on the outside of the month. There are two sets of reins connected to the bits. Dean thinks it seems a bit excessive, but okay. The fuck does he know anyway? 

He takes the bridle off, twists it around and tries again. He ain’t no fucking quitter. The more wrongs he makes, the harder it gets to do right, and the more he fumbles. Marlin sticks her head up high again, not at all interested in taking the bit. He tries to pull her head down, or get the bit in and the neck strap over her ears. He almost succeeds, but steps on the reins, practically jerking the bit right out of Marlin’s mouth again. She throws her head up, eye whites showing, and slicks her ears back. Terrified, Dean plasters himself back against the wall with his heart hammering so hard it fucking hurts.

Dean’s never really had a chance to realise how fucking afraid he is of horses, solely because he’s never been around them. It doesn’t matter that seven-year-old girls can boss around the huge beasts as if it was nothing. Dean just doesn’t get them. Marlin throws her head up and down a couple of times, her tail swishing back and forth, and she backs up two steps before settling down again, ears popping back into existence.

Without warning, a sniffle tears from Dean's throat. Then another. His eyes leak and his nose runs. He can fucking smell the saline inside his nose. “Fuck sake, why am I crying? What am I? A baby?”

Scolding himself doesn’t help. Tears keep building up, leaking down his cheeks, making his throat hurt and his lips wobble as he tries to man up and fails. He sobs again, taking one warbly breath after another. He closes his eyes. He's so fucking embarrassed. Sure, Nick maybe didn't want him to follow, but he wouldn’t have issued a challenge like this if it was impossible, would he? 

His heart aches. 

Nick had looked so mean. So fucking mean. 

A warm horse head is pushed against his chest. He ignores her in favour of sniffling and feeling self-pity. Her soft, warm muzzle touches his cheek, puffing warm breaths at his tears. Dean opens his eyes. Marlin’s ears are perked forward. He hulks another sob and quickly catches her head to press the bits against her mouth. She tries to pull her head up but Dean stops her, so she opens her mouth and takes the bits. Done right, it turns out the chain doesn’t go inside her mouth at all. Once it's in she lowers her head and lets him fumble the neck piece over her ears. His hands are trembling as he fastens the other straps around her head. He doesn’t know how hard to pull them so he leaves them pretty loose.

He’s still crying when he leads her outside. Not ugly crying or hulking or anything. His eyes just keep filling with tears, plummeting his confidence lower and lower. Marlin follows him willingly, making no fuss at all. Outside, there’s no sign of Nick. He’s not really surprised. There had been a tiny flicker of hope that maybe… no. That was just wishful thinking. He hasn’t even considered how the hell he’s going to find Nick. Right now there’s the question of how to get up on Marlin.

He puts his foot in a stirrup and tries to jump up, but she dances away, forcing him down again. It's for the best. He realises he still got the reins on the same side and pulls them over her head so they’re on either side of her neck.

In western movies they make things look so easy. They just throw on the saddle and the horse is magically prepared and bridled. Then they jump up and ride off with the same ease as if they were driving a car. 

He looks around and spots a two-step staircase that ends at a plateau. He guesses it’s made for this exact purpose. 

Sniffling like a four-year-old he leads Marlin to the ramp. The old mare starts dancing around as if the ramp is scary, chin high in the air. 

“No, no, no! Don’t _do_ this to me now!” Dean goes around and bodily pushes Marlin’s belly and flank towards the ramp. The horse sidles into place and stops where she should, head held high, tail swishing, ears flicking, and nostrils flaring. He rounds her again and walks up onto the ramp.

It looks as scary to get on from here as from the ground. Here he's much higher up than her. She pulls her head down and rubs her head against her front leg. Unsure how he's supposed to do, he gets to his knees facing the same direction as her, puts one hand on the ramp for support, and reaches out with his leg over her back. The moment his leg connects with her saddle her head flies up and she sidesteps with her back legs. He manages to withdraw his leg before she pulls him down. 

He sobs, trembling, feeling like such a fucking loser. He can’t even get up on her. It’s fucking pathetic. _He_ is pathetic. 

Marlin stands still with her shoulder against the ramp and her rump a step away, back legs wide apart. It creates a gap between the ramp and one of the stirrups. Dean musters courage turns both legs to dangle over the edge, puts one foot in the stirrup, grabs the back and the front of the saddle, then puts all his weight in the stirrup while swinging his other leg over Marlin’s back. His foot almost slides through the stirrup but catches on the heel of his combat boot.

It’s working. 

 

 

It would have worked. 

 

But then, everything goes _really_ wrong _real_ fucking fast.

The saddle suddenly gives way and slides down around the mare's belly when Dean has all his weight in the stirrup but before he's gotten his leg over her back. Since he’s holding nothing but the saddle and the reins, he’s helpless to stop his fall.

Marlin spooks when he starts to slide, backing up and bouncing on her front legs as if she's about to rear. 

Maybe if she’d bolted, taking him with her, his landing hadn’t been quite as abysmal. 

Maybe if his foot hadn’t caught in the stirrup, twisting his bad leg in the fall, shooting blinding pain through his leg, paralysing his brain function for a fraction of a second… but it does. 

The top stair clips him in the ribs, the bottom stair in the temple right after, then his shoulder catches the ground. 

For eons or half a heartbeat, his leg hangs suspended under the horse's belly. Then a rubber piece of the stirrup snaps loose, releasing his foot.

Air has been knocked out of his lungs. The pain in his leg is excruciating and he’s seeing stars from the blow to his head. Despite all that, his backbone fight training kicks in and he rolls out of the way the moment he’s loose.

Tries to.

The ramp’s in the way so he only manages to flip over, getting his hurt leg away from the horse. Realising he's trapped he starts pushing himself off the ground with his hands. Number one rule of a fight is ‘ _Get up! Get up! Get up!_ ’ Only, the hit to the head won't agree to the move, slowing him down. 

He dropped the reins when he hit the ramp. As soon as he no longer pulled on the reins Marlin stopped backing up and dances forward instead. 

A hoof steps down on Dean’s forearm with the mare's full weight on. The resulting crack reverberates inside Dean’s head. He cries out in pain and collapses. As soon as he cries out the weight is removed and Marlin starts turning around towards him. Her hoof comes down on his hand but is lifted straight away as if she realises that she stepped on him.

Dean curls into a ball, staring at his broken arm and the funny angle it’s set at. It’s hard to see because there are flashes of white before his eyes and black creeping in the edges of his vision. His sight is distorted and shifts like hot air, colours are faded, almost lacking red and yellow. 

His pulse beats hard in his ears. He finally manages to suck in a breath. It’s downright painful. He can fucking feel how much his lungs have been compressed by the landing due to how they expand with every breath. His leg throbs, his ribs hurt, his upper arm throbs where Max bit him, his head feels funny, his broken arm feels numb but his hand is starting to swell and throb. Adrenaline is rushing his bloodstream and endorphins do their best to mute pain.

Marlin lowers her head to sniff at him. One of her feet barely a foot away from his face. He’s stuck. Caught between the ramp and her. Injured and defenceless. 

_She’s gonna kill me. One kick in the head and I'm dead. I'm going to die. Fuck! I don’t want to die!_

The black is receding and the white spots in his vision are fewer, but colour remains washed out and his sight is oddly two-dimensional. His face feels wet on the side he hit it. Maybe it’s just tears. He closes his eyes, bracing for the kick. 

He can’t tell time, but no kick to head comes. A soft muzzle gently touches his cheek, puffing warm breaths at his skin. The muzzle disappears. Instead, the mare buffs him lightly in the stomach. It feels like she’s trying to get him to get up. Unless he’s just projecting human behaviour on her.

He feels so fucking beaten. Completely defeated and so _so_ very lonely. 

The first sob comes like a ripple through his body. The next shatters through the very fabric of his soul. 

He can’t stop it. He cries like the fucking loser he is. Bawls like a fucking baby, great, hulking sobs wracking his whole body. Nick doesn’t want him around, Mike wouldn’t take him along because he'd be a burden, the others don't need him, and Marlon is dead. He could have prevented it somehow, but failed. And he can’t even mount a fucking horse without nearly dying. He’s no good to anybody. Useless. Worthless. Broken and flawed. A burden. 

The terrifying beast won't leave him alone. She pokes him in the stomach with her head again, huffs him in the face then remains standing where she is instead of running off to eat grass like horses are supposed to. 

It’s unclear to Dean how long he bawls, but eventually, the sobs start waning and his brain starts returning to the realm of the present. He holds his broken arm close to his chest and tries to get up. His injured leg sends a jolt of blinding pain up his body when he bends it.

_How the hell am I gonna get myself from here?_

The more he thinks of his predicament, the worse the shame gets up until he feels like he could choke on it.

_Fuck! Nick can’t see me like this. He'll lose every shred of respect he's got for me._

He manages to pull himself up with help from the ramp and leans his butt against it. His balance is all wrong. It feels like everything keeps tilting. Putting the least bit of weight on his injured leg results in pain that threatens to make him crumble. He’s close to panic about the risk of being seen in this state. It causes a new shuddering sob to wrack through him.

Suddenly the horse is there, lipping at his face and― 

“ _Ew_. Did you just _lick_ me?” he asks incredulously and wipes at his face. Marlin looks innocently at him, ears perked forward and head held in eye level. “Crave that mineral, huh?” Dean jokes lamely. “I ain’t mad at ya, okay? I get it. I'm the kid climbing into his daddy's car, who can't reach the pedals and look through the windshield at the same time. It’s not the car's fault when it crashes.”

He reaches out to pet her with a shaky hand to assure her that he’s fine (Hah!). She comes closer, sidling up to him. On impulsive he hooks his arm over her neck and pulls himself to a standing position. Marlin backs up a step and he hops along, using her as a crutch. He's lucky (Hah!) since the broken arm is on the opposite side of his injured leg, so he doesn’t have to put weight on it. She could easily dislodge him by lowering her head, throwing it up, or moving away too fast. 

She doesn't. 

Dean can't tell if he leads her or she leads him. Slowly, step by hopping step they walk back to the stable. She keeps her head close and allows him to cling. She’s scarily strong, taking a great part of his weight on her fucking neck like it’s _nothing_. He’s still crying, sobbing silently the whole way. His balance is wonky, same as his sight. Everything’s washed out and colourless, shifting like on a grainy TV.

Somehow, they make it to her stall. He leans on the wall and pets her head. His hand is sticky and dirty. He moves his hand closer to his eyes and scrutinizes it, trying to figure out what the hell he’s looking at. Colour starts tuning in. Red. The bottom drops out of his stomach, heart racing. His head snaps up to stare at the horse in horror. “Fuck! Did I hurt you? Shit I'm sor―“

 

 

He hits the light switch in the garage and grabs the pitchfork again. He uses it as a crutch to hop to the key locker. He grabs a key fob at random, pushes the button and hops over to the car that beeps and blinks. He puts the pitchfork in the passenger seat and gets behind the wheel― 

 

“This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come I…”

The nurse behind the reception desk at the ER makes a calming gesture. “You’re right where you're supposed to be, Sir. What’s your name, Sir?”

“Dean. It’s Dean Williams. How did I get here?”

The nurse looks at him funny, clearly troubled. He shouldn’t have come here. He’s holding up the line for people who need help. “Dean, do you have insurance?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Cas got it for me. Or Mike. Dunno. Don’t remember. You'll have to ask them. I… where are they?”

“I'm sure they'll be here shortly, Dean. What happened to you? Were you in a car crash?” The nurse talks calmly, soothingly to him. Her eyes dart to the back trying to catch the attention of someone. Probably security. He's holding up the line. 

“No, no. I fell off a horse. I'm sorry…” He looks at her name tag to get her name but the letters make no sense. Maybe it’s in another language. Isn’t he in America? Probably not. He's a bit confused. “This is a mistake. I'm holding up the line. I'm a burden to you. Shouldn’t have come. I'm sorry. I…” he turns to leave. 

Behind him, the nurse reaches out to stop him. “No, Dean, don't!”

He forgets to take the pitchfork leaned against the desk. The jolt of pain shooting up his leg when he puts weight on it sends him tumbling towards the floor. Everything goes black…

* * *

_“What’s your name, child?”_

_“Peter. Peter Parker,” Dean lies._

_“How did this happen?”_

_“I was climbing a tree. A branch broke under my foot and I fell,” he lies, because telling them that dad broke his arm is a bad idea. “Ma'am, I don’t feel so good. I feel woozy,” he lies._

_“We'll take care of you, Dean. Do your parents know you’re here? Do you know if you have insurance?”_

_“Yes I do. But, um, I couldn't get a hold of mom. She's at work and… ma'am… the room is spinning. I…” Dean pretends to pass out. A broken bone isn't something he can hide in his room and pretend to be fine until the pain goes away. The angle of his arm is funny and seeing it would scare Sammy. Mrs Merkel down the road can patch most things up―she's kind and easily duped―but she can't set bones. Dad would take him in the morning when he sobered up, of course. But tomorrow is a long way away. However Dean’s smart. He's figured out how to solve the problem. Just go to the ER, cry a bit, give them a name and assure them there's insurance and then pass out. He'll be treated guaranteed. And once he's in the hands of a doctor, questions will mostly be about his health. Then he can ask for a sticker and sneak home before he's officially released. Sammy loves the stickers. He'll tell Sammy he told them he was Spider-Man this time. He'll think Dean is cool. It's fool proof._

* * *

“How are you feeling today, Mr Williams?”

He can’t open one eye properly and his head feels like it's full of cotton. His body feels numb, all his injuries nothing but dull aches. All thanks to the medication they've given him through the catheter on his arm. He feels fuzzy. “Today? How long have I've been here?”

The doctor smiles at him. “You don't remember?”

“Nu-uh. Last thing I remember is falling off a horse and getting her back to her stall. Then there's only bits and pieces after that. Feel free to fill in the blanks for me if you know anything I don't.”

The doctor hums, a troubled wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows. “You came here three days ago. It's a bit troubling that you don't remember…”

“Nah. Don't worry, Doc. I often get memory gaps during traumatic experiences. Hospitals are amongst the most traumatic things I know, so I wouldn't sweat it. So what’s the verdict? How long will I be useless? How badly did I fuck up my leg? If you say I'm never gonna walk again we're gonna have a problem,” Dean says with a cheeky smile and a wink. 

The doctor chuckles and shakes her head. “You need to rest your leg for a couple of weeks, then by my estimation, you'll be able to walk just fine. Avoid putting weight on it for four to six weeks then start to use it slowly. I'm going to recommend a physical therapist that can go through a couple of exercises―“

“Physical therapy. Got it. I know the drill.”

“Okay. Your arm will be in its cast for four weeks. I'll give you an appointment for removal of it. I recommend you let the physical therapist help you with your arm too. As for your head, you've got a light concussion. We suspected it was worse at first, but it proved it was just shock combined with critically low blood sugar levels causing the worst of your confusion. And since you claim to not remember, the Bentley has been towed.”

“The Bentley?”

“You drove yourself to the hospital. You told us that the pain in your leg made it hard to break and that's why you aimed at the concrete block in front of our entrance to stop.”

Dean laughs. “Holy shit! I'm one dumbfuck stupid asshole, ain't I?” he asks rhetorically, dumbfounded. 

“It would be rude of me to agree, but…” the doctor says drily. 

“Pfft. No offence taken. I know I'm stupid.”

“Oh, I'd say you're anything but, judging by your drugged ramblings when you woke up after the operation. But being smart doesn't stop people from doing stupid things while in shock.”

Dean gives the doctor a dubious look. “Whatever. I know I had my phone on me. I shoulda called for help.”

“I'm sure you would have, had you not been concussed and in shock. But there's something I'd like to talk to you about…”

“Shoot.”

The doctor comes forward to sit down in the chair beside the hospital bed. “You have quite a collection of healed bone fractures…”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, I used to work as a crash test dummy,” he jokes. 

The doctor raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Fine. Dad bought me at Build-A-Boy, and anytime he didn't like the results he'd rearrange the pieces. No biggie.”

“The man that you just lost?”

Dean recoils. “What? _No!_ That’s Papa, not dad. _Jeez._ How much have I've been talking?”

“Quite a lot. How long have you and your husband been married?”

Dean opens his mouth to answer. His head might be filled with cotton but his alarm still goes off, his mind shows him images of Nick regretfully holding him and telling him he’ll never hurt Dean again. He shuts his mouth and narrows eyes at the doctor, dropping the chipper mask. “Lady,” he says, tone low, calm and hostile. “I don’t know what bullshit you're projecting onto me right now, but whatever you’re fishing for, a friendly advice, don't fucking go there. I've been abused as a kid, spent eleven years serving my country overseas, and I have an active, at times physically trying lifestyle. But if you even so much as hint at what I think you’re about to imply, then you're about to have a problem.”

The doctor looks uncertain for a bit and seems to deliberate. Then she nods. “I wasn’t about to imply anything, Mr.Williams. Though I would like to talk about your cuts on your arm.”

Dean snorts but relaxes. “Why of course you do. You turn the car in for an oil change and the mechanic will inevitably claim the engine is about to explode and needs extensive repairs. That hospitals are the same isn’t news. This about my insurance? I'm not stupid enough to think that you _really_ care. I can see that the room I'm in is some VIP treatment shit. I'm the sole occupant, there’s a nice flat screen TV on the wall and nice looking fake flowers by the window. Y'all are making a fortune off of me. That’s okay. You patched me up and for that I'm grateful. I'm sure you're awesome at your job. Ain’t sayin’ anything about that. And I'll do the physical therapy I need to, to get me back on my feet. But you gonna stick your nose in things other than what I came here for, I'm walking straight outta here and get a cab to another hospital where they’ll respect my boundaries. Just so we're clear, there ain't no trust between us. I submit myself to your care with the same reluctance I would have surrendered myself to enemy soldiers when I was on active duty. I'll admit, this lack of trust is nothing to do with the treatment I've gotten here. It’s all about me and my past experiences, so don't go taking it personally. But focus your efforts on my leg, arm, concussion, and… what's up with my ribs?”

The doctor looks like she’s about to argue, then sigh in defeat, but thinks better of both. “Bruised. One rib has a fracture, but it's nothing big, nor anything we can or need to treat. As long as you rest you should be fine.”

“Okay. When can I go home?”

“I would like to keep you here for one more day for observation to make sure your memory loss is not related to your head injury.”

“Yeah, no. In that case, I'm going home today. What was it? Rest for four weeks then come back?”

The doctor looks frustrated. “Dean. I’d really recommend remaining here―“

“Don’t care. I'm leaving. This ain’t a prison, Doc. Ya can’t force me.” He smiles to soften the blow. 

“Very well. I'm going to prescribe you antibiotics and some pain relief. And I want you to put as little strain on your leg as possible for at least four weeks. Preferably bed rest.”

“So no cave exploration, huh?” Dean jokes. 

The doctor chuckles. “No. Definitely not.”

“Well, fuck,” Dean answers with a lopsided smirk and a sinking feeling in his gut. There goes his sanctuary.

The doctor explains to him what medicine she’s going to give him and how to take them, then she leaves to take care of the paperwork with one last admonition to go straight home to rest and to move around as little as possible. 

A nurse helps him get dressed. Melissa is a sprightly woman and she helps him fill in the blanks of his stay here. In fact, while they chat bits and pieces come back to him. Maybe that’s to do with how much he likes nurses, and always have. According to her, he's been a hilarious patient, which is good. He'd also put his male nurse, Tim, in a constant state of flustered blushing, which could have been bad, but Melissa assures him it's not. Apparently, his gushing had given Tim a confidence boost big enough to ask one of the doctors out and gotten a yes, which is awesome. 

A trip to the toilet shows him that he has one hell of a shiner as well as a bandage on his head. That accounts for not being able to open his eye properly. Briefly, he wonders if Nick will think him ugly now that the shiner isn’t ‘his’. 

He gets a crutch to help him walk. Outside, he hails a cab. He gives the driver his address and gets into the back. Once inside he takes up his phone. He still has about 50% battery. There are no missed calls. None. But there are about twenty messages from Mike. It’s the usual stuff―him talking about his days while he’s away. He informs Dean that he'll be gone another couple of days. There’s a message sent a couple of hours ago saying “I'm hesitant to ask… did I do something wrong since you're not answering? Or worse, did something happen? Are you alright? Please, baby, answer me. I'm starting to get really worried and it’s hard to focus on the job. Should I come home?”

Out of nowhere, Dean’s stupid lip wobbles again. Now he gets it under control, getting angry instead. He’s been in the hospital for three fucking days and the only one who's gotten worried is on the other side of the country. He taps out a reply. “Been in the tunnels. No reception, remember? I'm fine. Disappointed that you have to stay longer, but fine. Miss you. Love you.”

The phone dings with a relieved reply almost instantly. 

Dean stares at the phone for a moment before looking up. “Oy, cabbie. I've changed my mind. Turn the car around. We're going to a hotel instead.”

“You’re the boss, Sir. What hotel?”

“I dunno. The Hilton? Yeah. Hilton.”

“Hilton it is.”

* * *


	102. Soft Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't need to warn for violence and swearing do I? Yeah, no.

* * *

# Soft Hands

He keeps responding to Mike’s messages, telling lies when he has to. He doesn’t want to alarm Mike and force him to come home. It would make him a burden to Mike. He also starts a sporadic text conversation with Sam, who’s freaking out about Jessi being about to pop any day. But when he calls Nick, there’s no answer. 

He only calls twice. 

If he'd scrutinise his behaviour the upcoming days he spends in New York, he'd see that those two ongoing text convos were probably all that stood between him and total ruin. Sam needed him and Mike gave a shit. It helped him hold onto a shred of sanity.

Although, calling it ‘sanity’ is being overly generous. 

`**Mike:** I'm coming home sometime around noon. Miss you. `

God bless auto correct. Dean’s too drunk to be able to spell without it. He started drinking in the hotel bar and had only stopped to pass out a couple of hours here and there. Calling it sleep would be telling a lie. How the hell he’s managed to find his way back to the hotel room before passing out is beyond him. There are many bars and clubs in New York and he’s determined to visit every single one.

Until now. 

`**Dean:** Miss u 2. `

Mike’s coming home. Mike gives a shit. Hence, Dean promptly checks out of the hotel room and takes a cab home.

* * *

For a mad moment, he almost goes down to the stables to check on Marlin, even if the idea comes with a sense of dread. But then he spots two grooms moving around outside and turns back.

He’s slow moving and unstable due to being drunk, but he makes his way upstairs to one of the common rooms where he stops a while to rest. He’s heard people while making his way upstairs, but seen no one, and since no voice belonged to Mike, he avoided the voices’ owners. Along the walls in the common room there are chests of drawers, all with photos on top. His eyes fall on the photos on the other side of the room since they are of people on horseback, which feels fucking relevant right now.

He makes his way over, leans his crutch against the wide chest of drawers and uses it as support instead. There are pictures of the girls, Marlon, his late wife, Cas, Mike, and Gabe. He hops along the length of the chest looking, piecing together what he knows of horses with what the pictures show. Gabe’s jumping. Cas is playing polo. Anna and Marlon ride side by side, their horses curving their necks and backs, lifting knees up high, having white foam at the mouth. The horse Anna rides is the same colour as her hair, and Marlon’s atop… the horse is partly obscured by Anna and her horse but Dean’s pretty sure it’s Marlin he’s looking at. Dressage. It’s dressage they’re riding, right? Right. One of those things they do in the Olympics, where the horses prance around slowly in hopping gaits and the riders look snooty as hell. Except both Marlon and Anna are grinning and wearing ordinary clothes.

“What the hell were you thinking? You can’t just leave a horse partially tacked in its stall like that! She could have hurt herself! In the future, don’t try to saddle a horse and walk away when you give up!” Nick’s voice behind his is upset and coming closer. The blame in it has the same effect on Dean as dropping a match in a puddle of gasoline. From one moment to another he’s _furious_. His pulse goes into overdrive, pounding so hard in his ears that he can barely hear Nick. “Fuck, you smell like a fucking distillery. What happened with not drinking, huh? Hey! Are you even listening to me?” Dean might not hear what Nick’s saying, but he feels Nick’s hand on his shoulder.

Dean spins around swinging. He has no coherent thoughts except hot, boiling rage. He leads the swing with his cast arm and he sees Nick’s expression shift from annoyance to surprise before Dean’s fist connects with his temple. Dean grabs his shirt with his other hand to keep him from flying backwards, punches him in the face again at the same time as he knees him in the groin. An elbow brought down in the bend between Nick’s neck and shoulder and Nick topples, Dean following.

Nick hits the floor with the back of his head, curling into a ball and raising his arms in front of his head in defence. Dean lands straddling his midriff, punching at his face left, right, left, right, relentlessly. All Nick can do is dazedly block with his arms. Nick’s bleeding. Dean doesn’t give a shit. He feels nothing but the roaring firestorm of rage inside. No pain. No thoughts. No nothing.

To win a fight against someone who is stronger, bigger, more experienced and skilled than you, you either have to be really lucky, or have the moment of surprise. 

Nick sure as hell hadn’t seen it coming.

It looks like Nick’s saying something, possibly screaming something, but all Dean can hear is his racing pulse.

**BA-BOM BA-BOM BA-BOM BA-BOM BA-BOM BA-BOM**

Somebody tears Dean off of Nick. Dean barely feels them, but he grabs whoever it is and hurls them over his back in a jiu-jitsu throw that probably knocks the air out of them when they land. Dean dives right back at Nick who’s struggling to sit up, but folds back defensively as soon as he sees Dean coming. Nick’s beaten. Had Dean been in another state of mind, not inebriated, not consumed by rage, he’d backed off. Nick’s at this point just trying to _survive_. But Dean’s back on top of him, grabbing his hair and smashing his head back on the floor, throwing another successful punch.

Again, he’s torn off of Nick. This time by more than one person. He struggles against their grip as they drag him out the door and throw him at the wall in the corridor outside. The door is promptly slammed shut.

Cut off from the object of his ire, his berserk mode starts leaving him. He glides down the wall to lie like a lump, propped against it. He stays that way as sound slowly starts returning, and with it pain. 

_Fuck!_

He knows he needs another trip to the hospital because the cast is broken and it wouldn’t surprise him if he’d fucked up the whatever they put inside of him to stabilise the bones in his forearm while they healed. His arm is throbbing, so are both his hands, his ribs, and… no. His leg isn’t giving him much shit apart from a dull ache.

He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there like a sack of potatoes when Cas opens the door and comes out. He stands with his arms crossed, glaring down at Dean, eye glowing unnaturally blue. “I’m surprised you’re still here,” he says curtly.

“Yeah, well. If you want me to leave you’ll have to throw my crutch out too, fuckhead.”

“Your crutch…?” Cas frowns in a lack of understanding and gives Dean a once-over. His eyes fall upon the cast, then the shiner that has healed enough for the swelling to go down, the stitched gash on the temple. (The band-aid bandaging had itched so much that Dean had removed it the second day.) “Those are not new injuries. What happened?”

“Nick did this to me. It’s his fucking fault!” Dean spits bitterly. He spots Nick’s outstretched leg on the floor inside the room behind Cas. There are more people in there. Dean can see Gabe crouched down by Nick’s side, and hear murmurings of Anna. “You hear that, Nicholas? I fucking _told_ you, that if you ever went AWOL on me again I’d fuck you the hell up! I _told_ you! I spent three fucking days hospitalized and you didn’t even bother calling! And you have the fucking gall to start our first fucking conversation when I fucking finally come home, by fucking yelling at me for leaving the fucking saddle on?! I’ve been gone for six fucking days and the only one who’s gotten worried is Mike, and he was on the other fucking side of the fucking country. Your siblings have excuses, Nicholas. It’s a big house and they’re gone most of the day. They’re not supposed to fucking share my bed like my fucking husband is. Did you even fucking notice I was gone, Nick? _Did you_?”

“I thought you’d left with Mike…” Nick answers weakly, slightly slurred. 

“Left with―? Nicky, you dolt! Your brothers don’t want me tagging along with them now. I asked and they said no. They’re too stressed out to babysit. I’d just be a burden.” Cas looks genuinely surprised, shaking his head with a ‘ _What? No!_ ’-expression. From inside the room Gabe’s voice protests ‘ _That’s not how it is!_ ’ Dean pays them no mind. “Personally I think it’s bullshit. If I’m supposed to learn how to fucking do this I need to know how to handle a crisis too. But no. I’m left here to rot. _Useless!_ I can’t even do the ground service because y’all got servants to do that. I’m fucking nothing to no one. _Useless. Useless. Useless._ ” He laughs bitterly. “Can’t even mount a horse without almost dying.”

“You got hurt trying to ride?” Cas asks, wanting clarification and looking quite distraught by now.

“Yeah. Nick said ‘pick a horse and follow’, then he left. So I did.”

“For the love of―! Darling, you weren’t supposed to follow,” Nick whines. Dean can see his leg stirring as if he’s struggling to flip over to sit up.

“ **In what world, would I not follow your stupid ass anywhere?!** ” Dean roars. “In what fucking universe would I not follow you to hell and back? Fucking tell me! I’m Thelma to your Louise, Bonnie to your fucking Clyde! There’s _nothing_ I wouldn’t do for you, Nick. Fucking nothing! I told you you’re stuck with me. I needed you, Nick. I fucking needed you. Of course I’ll fucking follow you.”

Nick staggers upright. Scratch that. Tries to. He can’t stand properly and tips forward. Gabe catches him and tries to stop him from going forward, but Nick’s locked on target. Dean really did a number on him. One eye swollen shut, bleeding from cheekbone, nose, and mouth. Split lip hanging slack and open. He tears himself loose from Gabe and staggers towards Dean, using the momentum of his forward fall to carry him towards Dean. Cas catches him before he nosedives, giving him time to brace himself. He frees himself from Cas’ grip and crawls the last little bit to drop himself onto Dean’s chest, wrapping his arms around Dean.

It hurts Dean’s fractured rib and Dean couldn’t care less. It feels like ages since he got to have Nick this close. He should be pissed still, but the anger evaporates like a popping soap bubble, replaced by relief.

Cas, Gabe, and Anna all look apprehensive for the heartbeat it takes for Dean to respond by wrapping his own arms around Nick and bury his nose in Nick’s hair with a relieved sigh, then they all move at once, like all they needed was proof that Dean isn’t a murderous lunatic anymore before closing in, squatting around the beaten pair. Wounds are being cleaned, ice packs pressed against bruising and swelling. Hester comes running. “The ambulance is on its way,” she says.

“I’m sorry…” Nick mumbles. He’s really out of it. And Dean worries about how badly he messed Nick up.

“Ey. Look at it this way. We’re gonna be the prettiest pair at the funeral. Matching shiners and everything,” Dean jokes lamely.

* * *

It knocks on the door.

“Come in,” Dean yells.

Cas comes inside Nick’s room. “Are all of you awake?”

“We are,” Mike answers, snuffling Dean’s shoulder and one arm outstretched to card through Nick’s hair. They’ve finally been allowed to go home from the hospital. (Not the same Dean had driven to, but a private clinic that catered to the rich.) It’s the first morning after sleeping in their own bed―all four of them, Mavis included―and Dean feels a helluva lot better about being ordered bedrest now.

“Good. I was hoping we could have a talk, all of us, in the light of what was revealed in the aftermath of the fight. I’ve waited, not finding a hospital the best place to broach the subject. But now…”

“It’s okay, Cassie. Come on in,” Nick says with a lazy smile. He’s barely let go of Dean since he collapsed on top of him. Of course, he had to while he was x-rayed and Dean operated on to reset the broken bones. But their hospital beds had been pushed together so they could hold hands. And they'd been in the hospital the shortest possible time before being released home. 

Castiel leans outside the door and beckons, then Gabe, Anna and Hester pile in after him. They all climb up to sit on the bed. Mave scrambles to greet them all before settling down in Hester’s lap to enjoy her long-nailed scratches. “There's been a fair amount of miscommunication we’d like to clear up. First of all, we'd like to talk about what you said, Dean, about us not wanting to have you tagging along during the crisis because you'd be a burden,” Cas says. 

“What? You said that?” Mike asks and Dean nods. Mike had given him a ton of crap for lying about his injuries. Apparently, no business is important enough not to abandon to rush to his side if he’s hurt. Whattaya know, huh?

“He did, yes,” Cas confirms. “Nothing could be further from the truth, Dean. All of us enjoy both your company and your input. It’s true that we said that it's very chaotic and stressful at work right now, and that it might not be the best conditions to learn. We thought we were doing you a favour by giving you an out. We did not mean that you would be a burden to us. On the contrary, I noticed that you are flirty with people in a way that makes them feel good about themselves and consequently us. This is a talent you share with Mikey, but that I struggle with. Having you along on meetings would be an advantage, not a burden.”

Mike and Gabe chime in their agreement. 

“Oh… Yeah, no, I didn’t get that that’s how you meant it.” Dean reckons this is a moment where honesty will serve them all for the best. “I don’t… look. My mind ain’t a pretty place to be. It’s full of dead people and demons, alright? When I’m left alone, they take over. I don’t like to talk about it. It’s not as bad when I have a, a purpose. Uh... this might sound crazy but when we were running from the feds and trying to find Mike I was fucking rock solid. Then, um… look. You guys have such a well working net of emotional protection it’s fucking scary. Y’all support each other so well, there ain’t room for anyone else. Like, like Naomi. She’s practically y’alls mom, and yet none of y’all have stopped to think that she might not have taken Marlon’s passing in stride. She’s the one who found him, for christ sake! But y’all don’t see beyond yer noses when shit like this goes on.” Several of the siblings shift uncomfortably, yet all of them remain quiet to let him speak. He thinks they do this from time to time. Have family meetings where they fucking _listen_ to each other. “I mean, I have no reason to care one way or another about Marlon’s passing. I’ve only met him a coupla times, right? But he was so much like y’all, and he treated me with more respect than my own fucking dad did. I too have got lots of thoughts and feelings ‘bout it all. And all the sudden I’m sidelined and my own fucking husband won’t come to my bed. Speaking of, how come none of y’all give a shit ‘bout Nicky turning ghost?”

“Do we have to talk about―” Nick begins to protest, but Dean covers his mouth with a hand.

“Because he turns into a giant bag of dicks when he’s like that,” Gabe says. “I’m sorry, Luci, I love you to bits, but you do,” he adds placatingly towards Nick.

“It’s nothing new that he withdraws for a while when he has a lot on his mind,” Cas chimes in. “It usually only lasts a couple of weeks before he comes around again. If he needs to talk, he usually talks to Mikey. But that leads us into the next matter we wanted to talk about.” Cas shares a look with Gabe, Anna, and Hester, getting small nods of confirmation. “Dean, we reviewed the security footage from the stable―”

“You all saw? _Jeezus_. That’s fucking embarrassing. You must think I’m a complete loser now, huh?” He removes his hand from Nick’s mouth just to cover his own face with it. Both Nick and Mike hug him closer.

“What? No! You were so brave,” Anna says immediately.

“Yes,” Hester agrees. “It was obvious that you were terrified, and yet you tried. Even after Max bit you, you still didn’t give up. I was shocked you even went back into the stall to retrieve the brush.”

“Why did you even decide to brush him?” Anna asks.

Dean lowers his hand from his face. “I saw Nicky do it. I know fucking nothing about horses except which end kicks and which end bites. But Nicky brushed Corny so there has to have been a reason for it, right? I mean, they weren’t dirty, and he did it anyway.”

Nick makes a wounded noise and burrows his head by Dean’s shoulder.

“Can we watch the video footage together so we can explain why things happened like they did?” Mike asks. He hasn’t seen it. Can’t have. He’s been with Nick and Dean since the moment he came home, just in time to see both of them being carried out on stretchers to a waiting ambulance. Good times.

“Dude. It’s humiliating. I was crying like a fucking baby for most of it.”

Anna reaches out and pats his leg reassuringly on top of the blanket. “It’s okay. None of us will judge you for it. And all of us have had horse-related accidents. When I was fifteen I was galloping over a field with my horse Maya, and she stepped into a gopher hole. We both went down and she rolled on top of me. I broke a leg and got a concussion, and she was so badly injured in the fall that she could never be ridden again. It took me several months before I dared to ride again, and the better part of a year before I dared to do any trail riding.”

“Almost two before you dared to gallop again, if I remember it correctly,” Mike chimes in and Anna nods.

“Dad used to videotape us riding, then go through with us what we did wrong and what we needed to think of in the future. When he didn’t do it, our horsemaster would,” Hester tells him. “This is like that. Plus, after seeing what went down, if you hadn’t kicked Luci’s ass, I would have. His behaviour goes against everything we’ve been taught. Safety comes first.”

Dean tries not to giggle at the idea of Hester kicking Nick’s ass, and fails.

“I didn’t think he would try to follow me,” Nick defends himself. Then, to Dean, “I thought you get pissed off and leave me alone. That’s why I thought you’d gone with Mike.” His eyes show a shitton of guilt and regret. Dean forgave him the moment he dropped onto Dean’s chest after the fight, but Nick hasn’t forgiven himself.

“But you believed I’d saddle a horse and just leave?”

“It surprised me. But I figured you’d just said ‘fuck it’ and given up when she inflated her belly, and that’s why the saddle was hanging askew.”

“Inflated her―? Horses do that? Fuck. I fucking _knew_ she wasn’t that fat when I went into her stall.” He looks at Mike. “You know what? Maybe we should watch the clusterfuck that was my foray into horseback riding. But if any of y’all mock me for crying, I’ll give y’all something to cry about, like I did Nicky.”

Mike chuckles. “I still can’t believe you actually _beat_ him,” he says while smirking at Nick over Dean’s chest.

Nick grunts, glaring at him.

“Yeah, well. I had surprise on my side and got in a solid first hit.”

“I deserved it,” Nick grumbles.

Gabe goes to fetch a laptop that he connects to the TV via WiFi then sits down on the bed again. After some fiddling while small talking (Dean finds out that the recordings are kept for a week unless they need to be saved for a reason, and that they don’t have anyone monitoring the camera feeds unless certain alarms go off or a mare is pregnant or something like that.) a grid of camera feeds come up on the big screen TV. Marlon’s philosophy against security cameras at home does not extend to the stable. It’s got cameras high in the ceiling to record activity in all the stalls and what happens outside around the stable. The horses are treated like the fucking crown jewels or something. Gabe clicks one of the squares and it goes fullscreen on the TV, he switches cameras to follow their movement. On Dean’s request, he splits the screen while Nick’s still in the stable, so Dean can see what he does while out of Dean’s sight.

It’s strange and uncomfortable to watch himself. At the start, he watches and asks about what Nick does. He greets the horse, feels its legs, walks around and inspects it. Then grabs something from the box outside the stall (“It’s a hoof pick. It’s used to make sure nothing’s stuck in the horse’s hooves that may hurt it.”) and uses it to fiddle with the hooves, then he replaces it with a brush and brushes the horse’s back and belly. (“To make sure there’s no dirt that will chafe under the saddle. The grooms brush the horses daily but you should brush the parts under the saddle regardless, if you’re going to ride.”)

As soon as Nick leads Corny out of the stall, Dean’s fear is obvious. And so is his crushed emotional state after Nick’s left.

“Darling, why didn’t you just leave?” Nick whines, looking pained.

“I thought maybe you were mad at me for not makin’ an effort. You came down in the tunnels with me. And I just shipped you off to Saudi Arabia when you wanted me to partake in your hobby too. I figured maybe you wanted me to prove myself after being so uninterested…”

“No, no, no. To me, you embraced my interest by letting me go there to ride. You encouraged me instead of belittling me, despite not understanding it. Why do you always have to see the dark angle, darling?”

Okay, Dean had _not_ looked at it that way.

“You sure proved yourself,” Hester says. “Luci, just look at this. You can see him thinking that Max is a big scary monster, then ‘Lets go into his stall’. I mean, look!”

Dean can feel residue dread when he sees himself go into Max’s stall, then press himself against the door when Max sniffs him. He looks fucking terrified.

“Max is like, _super_ ticklish. He’s a sweetheart in general. A bit lazy perhaps,” Anna says.

“Ticklish? I didn’t know horses could be ticklish.”

“Oh, yes they can. Not all are. I always tie him up when I brush him because he bites, but he isn’t a kicker,” Anna explains.

“Did he give a warning? I couldn’t read him.”

Gabe uses the mouse to show how Max swishes his tail in annoyance, then jerks his head, tenses his lips, points out a couple of other small things that, yeah, Dean had noted, but not known how to interpret.

“It doesn’t have to mean they’ll bite, but those are signs of displeasure,” Mike adds.

On the video, Dean has time to see that Max slicks his ears back before biting. He would have understood that at least, had he seen it.

“I don’t get why you chose Indy, out of all horses. She’s so mouthy and in your face. I’d be wary of her if I didn’t know her, especially if I’d just got bit by another horse,” Mike muses.

“Dude. She’s a giant lapdog. Besides, she was something familiar. We’d spent weeks looking for the Blue Marlin. Of course, I’d pick Marlin once I found her. Oh, by the way, I found where your old man kept his keycard.”

“Marlin? Why do you call her―? _Oooooh_! Indigo Marl _een_. I feel so stupid now,” Mike smacks his forehead. “And her Sire was named Blue, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Anna agrees.

“So where was the―”

“Shush! Here comes the best part,” Hester shushes. “Dean completely forgets to be afraid and goes for the picture. This must be a macro demonstration of what you said earlier, Dean. About how you need a purpose. Because you see that pic and go for it, and completely ignore how Indy crowds you up against the wall and chews at your hair. And here comes the fuck off…”

On screen, Dean gets annoyed at the horse at his back and raises his arm sharply with his hand fisted. The horse shies back with her head raised. That’s when Dean realised she was scary again and drops his own posturing.

Hester’s commentary during it all is actually calming to him, even if it’s laced with some humour. Like when Marlin, no, _Indy_ , tries to follow him out of the stall and she says ‘Back up, you overgrown hamburger,’ pretending to be Dean.

When Dean struggles with the tack they’re all pretty quiet except explaining things to him. The saddle is placed too far back, she sucked in air to inflate herself, she’s got the most sensitive mouth in the stable and reacted so strongly when the bit was torn out of her mouth. But most of all, they’re all dreadfully quiet when he leads her outside. They all know (and Dean too now) that the saddle girth isn’t tightened enough due to her antics and his ignorance. The accident is just waiting to happen. 

Marli― _Indy_ , keeps watch over him after she’s failed to get him to rise after the fall. He can see it and it makes something in his heart swell with affection despite how scary she is to him. Even more so when she tows him back to the stable. By then he's bleeding profusely from the head and it looks real fucking scary. Once he discovers the blood is his he used the bars of the stalls to get to the pitchfork and grabs it as a crutch. 

“Oh, that's right. I forgot to tell you. The Bentley was towed. I used it to drive myself to the hospital.”

“You drove _yourself_ to the hospital?”

“Heh. Yeah. It hurt so fucking bad to use the brakes so I crept along the side of the road at snail speed, keeping the warning blinkers on. Aimed at a concrete block outside of the hospital to make sure the car would stop. I mean, I hit the brakes. I just couldn't keep my foot pressed down long enough to guarantee the car would stop in time not to hurt anyone. Last thing I wanted was to pass out from pain while driving.”

“Are you insane?”  
“Why didn't you call an ambulance?”  
“Dear lord!”  
“We've got staff all over the place! You could have asked anyone!”  
“For the love of―!”

Dean honestly can't say who is saying what. They all clamour at once. “Oy. Chill, will ya? I felt humiliated and beaten. The last thing I wanted was for anyone who knows me to see me and mock me. I mean, watching myself _now_ I get that nobody would. But it made sense at the time. Concussed and shocked an’ all.”

“At least it explains why they called about the Bentley,” Mike says. “I thought it was Gabe’s doing.”

“Hey!” Gabe protests indignantly.

“What? You do shit like that all the time. Then something happens and you make yourself scarce without telling anyone.”

“I do _not_.”

“Yes, you do.”  
“Yes, you do.”  
“Yes, you do.”

Dean kinda loves when the siblings speak in sync.

“Dean. We'd like for you to go down to the stable with all of us as soon as the doctor says you're okay to put weight on your leg,” Cas declares solemnly.

_Oh, Like hell I will!_

“Why?”

“Once bitten, twice shy.”  
“Once bitten, twice shy.”  
“Once bitten, twice shy.”  
“Once bitten, twice shy.”  
“Once bitten, twice shy.”  
“Once bitten, twice shy.”

Dean can’t help laughing at the way they all chant it like a backbone reaction, even Nick. He realises that this is the Williams’ emotional safety net unfolding to catch him. They hadn’t comprehended that he'd been falling until now. “Do I have to?”

“Nobody will force you, but…” Cas starts.

Dean doesn’t hear the rest of what he’s saying because Nick whispers “Please, darling. Let me make it right…”

Dean turns his head to look into his pleading blue eyes. How the hell can he say no to that? He can’t, that’s how. “Yeah, okay…”

“Indy isn’t a beginner's horse,” Anna announces, drawing his attention, “but she’s a great horse. Do you want to see her under saddle?”

“Um. Yeah, sure,” Dean answers mostly to placate Anna for the enthusiasm she asks with.

“Great!” She jumps off the bed and skips away, returning shortly with several CD-ROMs. “This one,” she says and hands Gabe one of them.

Turns out, it isn’t just about watching a horse. It’s about watching and remembering their dad.

Anna is the one filming. She wants to be an actress and director, so maybe it’s not so strange that she has a bunch of home videos she’s made herself. 

The footage starts with her cooing at her own horse in its stall.

Anna grabs the laptop from Gabe and fast forwards. She hits play and now the footage shows Marlon in Indy’s stall, petting her head and kissing her nose, ice blue eyes warm as a spring day, smile soft.

“How’s daddy’s favourite girl today?” he asks the horse warmly.

“I thought I was your favourite girl,” Anna pouts jestingly from behind the camera.

Marlon turns his head and smirks lopsidedly at her, eyes narrowing slyly. “I certainly got you thoroughly fooled then, Doodle bunny,” he says and winks at the camera.

“Da-aad!” Anna protests.

In the bed, the siblings chuckle or smile.

“God, he was such a dork when he relaxed, wasn’t he?” Hester comments and gets murmurs of agreements.

“I was thinking of taking a ride in the forest today. You want to come?” Anna asks on the screen.

“Not today. I was planning to dance with my lady over here,” Marlon answers, looking back at the horse. Indy does that thing when she rubs her upper lip back and forth against his lip and chin and he responds by sticking his chin out for her, completely unbothered by the risk of getting his face chomped off.

Dean chuckles in bemusement. “Gee. No wonder the guy never remarried.”

Several of the siblings laugh. Nick grins and buries his nose in Dean’s shoulder without taking his eyes off the screen. “Whatever else there’s to say about dad, he was quite a horseman.”

“Hear ye, hear ye,” Gabe agrees. “He had a saying - ‘Soft hand, hard punch’.”

“He punched the horses?” Dean asks, perplexed.

“ _No._ He was a boxer, you dolt,” Nick scoffs. “But soft hand is about riding. I’ll show you the difference between soft and hard hand when we’re in the stable. It’s about working with the horse, not against it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Anna fast forwards again and on the screen, Marlon sits on Indy’s back in an indoor riding area, Frank Sinatra’s _I’ve Got You Under My Skin_ pouring from speakers. Horse and rider move in perfect harmony to the music. Dressage, Dean reminds himself. He certainly gets what Marlon had meant about ‘dancing’.

Watching one video of Marlon leads to watching another, non-horse related, and another. Someone orders breakfast to the room, and sometime during the morning Naomi joins them, sitting down on an empty spot by the foot of the bed. Cas looks between Dean and Naomi, then Dean again, then he makes himself smaller and scoots to Naomi’s side hugging her and mimics a child seeking comfort. Dean thinks he took to heart what Dean had said about them forgetting about her grief. By acting as if it’s he who needs comfort he invites her in without words, letting her save face.

They end up curled together in bed most of the day watching home videos. Not just of Marlon, but of the whole family. Dean worries a bit about Nick, because these videos are snapshots of good times, even good times with their dad, some so old they’re on VHS, or older still. Naomi digs up an old projector and they watch when the boys were babies. Mike sitting in Marlon’s lap while Marlon bottle feeds Nick, held tightly to his chest with a tender smile. (It makes Dean react, but Naomi tells him it’s her milk in the bottle, and that she had to go away that night.)

The whole day is bittersweet and nostalgic, with both funny commentary and tears from the siblings. Nick comments as much as the rest of them, but Dean still worries about him, because at times he goes quiet and averts his face when he shouldn’t.

* * *

Dean stares down in the open casket. The family has a moment to say goodbye in private before everyone else is let in. Nobody questioned him when he said that he too wanted a moment. Now he scrutinizes the body, searching for some tell that it isn’t Marlon. “Come on, papa, talk to me,” he mutters under his breath. It’s so hard to tell with a corpse. There’s no soul living there anymore, making it harder to recognise even if you _know_ who you're looking at. It’s not them anymore. He gives up and lifts Marlon’s rough and calloused hand to place the saffron rose he brought, underneath.

Suddenly his pulse is rabbiting elatedly in his chest. It takes him a beat to figure out why, as he settles Marlon’s hand back down and goes to join the others, waiting for the funeral to begin. When it hits him, he’s 99% certain the man in the casket, for all his likeness, _isn’t_ Marlon.

It’s hard to tell with a corpse, but in life, Marlon’s hands had been _soft soft soft_ like Mike’s.

_You’re alive, papa. And I’m gonna find ya. I swear it._

* * *


	103. Noah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff! :D

* * *

# Noah

“Come on, Sammy! _Breathe_! Breathe with me,” Dean coaches, inhaling and exhaling deeply, walking back and forth while gesturing in and out movements with his free hand. If Sam didn’t sound like he was about to pass out then Dean would be having an aneurysm by now. Jessi is having her baby. He's becoming an uncle and sire all at once.

“Who is having a baby again? His brother or his brother’s wife?” Hester asks sarcastically and sips her tea, leaning back against the headboard of the bed. She’s the designated driver while Dean and Nick recover from their respective injuries. Concussions tend to slow down reactions. 

Nick snorts in amusement and smirks. “I sure hope it’s Jess, because Sam was banned from the room about an hour ago. He was freaking out too much about Jess screaming. Kept asking the nurses if she was dying,” he fills her in and sips his coffee, watching Dean’s wild-eyed pacing.

Hester chuckles. “Wow. What a comforting presence he must have been.”

Nick hums. “Indeed.”

“I can’t believe those two weren’t on speaking terms before,” Hester says, implicating Dean and Sam. “Have you met him? Sam, I mean?”

Nick coughs. “Yes. Is fourteen hours a natural length of time to be in labour?” He swiftly changes the subject.

“As far as I’ve heard, yes,” Hester confirms.

Dean ignores his audience, focussing on his kid brother on the other end of the line. They’d been back and forth in phone contact since Sam and Jessi went to the hospital. He wanted to jump into a car and go there straight away, but Sam had advised against it because Jess wanted as few people around as possible. She didn’t want any people around until she was done.

Dean stops his pacing and listens intensely to what happens on the other end of the line. His inside is a mess of worry for Jess and the baby. His son. He shouldn’t be thinking of the baby as his son, but the thought of something going wrong during birth makes him feel responsible. 

Well. He _is_ responsible. But whatever.

He helped create the monster who had tortured Jess these last couple of hours. He has no interest of taking the fatherly responsibility―preferring the role of an uncle―but still. 

In the background, he can hear a baby wailing. His heart squeezes and grows two sizes right then and there.

‘ _You can come in now, Mr. Moore._ ’

‘ _Are they… are they okay?_ ’ Sam’s voice practically wobbles.

‘ _They’re both fine. You’ve got a healthy son._ ’

Dean hears Sam go into the room and Jess greet him with a tired smile in her voice. The baby has stopped wailing and he listens to the two new parents murmuring. He hears Sam sniffle.

“Are you crying, you fucking wimp?”

Sam hiccups a laughter. “Sorry, he’s just… Dean. I’ve got a son!”

Dean grins. “They’re alright? Can I come?”

“Yes. And yes. Oh, my God, Dean. I just became a _dad_.” Sam’s voice is so fucking filled with awed happiness Dean can’t believe his stupid little brother went through so much trouble to _avoid_ this particular fate.

“Yeah, yeah. Frankly, I’m more impressed by Jess’ part in it all, but alright.”

Sam laughs. “Me too. Now, make your way over here and meet Noah.”

Someone in the background talks to the new parents. ‘ _We need to discuss the boy’s circumcision…_ ’

“Like hell you do! Anyone comes anywhere near my nephew with a knife I’ll fucking slice off the genitals of anyone involved in the procedure. Is that fucking clear?” Dean threatens loudly, making both his spectators snigger.

“No,” Sam answers the speaker. “If my son wants to be circumcised he can make that decision himself when he’s over eighteen. His body, his decision.”

‘ _What my husband said,_ ’ Jess agrees in the background.

“Fuck, Sammy. That’s mah boy,” Dean praises and Sam chuckles. “See ya soon.” He hangs up and turns towards Hester and Nick. “It’s a boy.” Which might be a stupid thing to say since they knew that already. 

“Time to go?”

“Yeah.”

* * *

“Hey, baby mama. Looking gorgeous as usual,” Dean coos as he steps into the room.

Jess looks up at him with a tired smile, holding the baby to her chest. She looks like she’s been through a wringer, hair matted by sweat and exhaustion marring her face. Her eyes are tired, but content and warm. “Oh, shut that lying mouth of yours.”

“ _Eyy_. In the eyes of the beholder, Jessy bean.”

Sam’s sitting on a chair next to the bed, holding one hand on Jessi’s thigh on top of the blanket and leaning his head against her shoulder. He beams at Dean. 

“You know, I should be kicking your ass for lying to me, but it looks like someone beat me to it. What happened?” Jess asks. 

“Oh, this? I fell off a horse coupla weeks ago. Heh. Broke my arm, a rib, got a concussion and messed up my leg.”

“What? And you didn’t call us?” Sam says, horrified puppy eyes at full power. 

“Figured you had your own worries. Don’t sweat it. My in-laws have given me enough shit about not telling anyone, that I know better than keeping it on the DL the next time something happens.”

Sam’s face is what gives away that Nick peeks his curious head inside the door. It’s lucky Jess is focused on Dean or she might have spotted how Sam’s breath hitches and his eyes widen before he gets his face under control. 

“And you? Did you fall off a horse too?” Jess asks, inviting Nick in by addressing him.

“No, ma'am. Dean kicked my ass,” he says with a lopsided smirk as he steps inside the room. 

Jess raises an eyebrow. 

“Completely consensual, of course,” Nick adds smoothly. “Martial arts practice.”

Jess doesn't look convinced. 

“Jess, this is my husband, Nick. Nick, this is my Jessy bean,” Dean introduces. 

Jess frees a hand to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too, Jessica. Dean’s been singing your praise to a degree that I almost got jealous.”

“That’s because he knows what's good for him,” Jess states impishly. 

Nick sniggers and then turns to offer Sam his hand. “Nick. A pleasure to meet you.”

Sam takes his hand. “Sammy. _Sam!_ I mean, Sam. That’s my name,” Sam flusters and laughs awkwardly. 

“Oh, I think I'll go with Sammy,” Nick purrs. “No take backs,” he teases way too flirtily for Dean’s taste and winks with a smirk on his face. 

Jess rolls her eyes. “My husband packed everything except his brains. Sorry about that. By the way, is there someone else with you? I thought I heard a third voice outside?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. My sister-in-law who drove us here,” Dean answers.

“Well. Why is she standing awkwardly in the corridor when she can stand awkwardly in here? Tell her to come in,” Jess scolds, rocking her baby boy gently.

Hester, who’d been standing just outside, hearing everything through the small opening of the door, laughs and comes inside. “I like you already,” she declares and offers Jess her hand to shake. “Hester.”

After Hester’s been introduced to both parents Dean fidgets. “Can I… can I see him?” Right now Noah’s covered by a blanket by Jess’ chest and you don’t really see much of the newborn.

“Sure, you can. Do you want to hold him?” Jess asks with a soft smile.

Dean swallows dryly. There are a thousand thoughts flying through his head, most of them in line with ‘What if I drop/hurt him?’. He nods. “Yeah,” he answers bravely, voice rough.

Jess unfolds the blanket enough to uncover his face and chest. “Come here,” she bids then helps place the baby in Dean’s arms. 

He supports Noah with his cast arm and cradles him to his chest. Supposedly he’s a big boy, weighing over 9 lbs (whatever), but in Dean’s eyes Noah’s tiny. It takes a while before Dean remembers how to breathe. “Hey, little fella. You an ugly one, huh? Must take after your dad, huh?” Dean coos and caresses Noah’s cheek with a careful finger on his free hand.

“He definitely does,” Jess says dryly.

“Dean, be nice,” Hester scolds.

Everyone except Hester snigger.

“Sam is sterile,” Jess tells Hester, letting her in on the joke. “Noah got a dose of the closest genetic fit we could find,” she adds and looks pointedly towards Dean.

Hester sucks in a surprised breath. “Oh! So that’s why Dean went to the toilet to hyperventilate after the call came.”

“Don’t tell on me, you traitorous hag,” Dean mock chides, then grins and gives her a wink.

Noah suddenly grabs his finger in a strong (how how how can a newborn be so strong?) grip and pulls it towards his mouth, at the same time he opens his eyes and looks straight at Dean. 

Dean’s world stops. 

“Hey…” he says softly. “I’m your uncle Dean and I don’t know you yet, but I fucking love you, alright?” 

“Dean. No swearing.”

Dean ignores the chastising, feeling lightheaded and warm inside. For a long time, he’s speechless, staring at the next generation Winchester, eyes getting embarrassingly misty.

“I’m a wimp, huh? Now _you’re_ the one crying,” Sam teases.

“Shaddap. Am not. Allergies. Whatever,” Dean flusters but can’t stop grinning, looking down at the baby. “When you grow up and need help with any tech stuff, just gimme a call, and I’ll help you out. Your dad is a book nerd so he can’t build a rocket worth shit. But I’ll teach you how to fix things and make the most awesome stuff seen on the science fair, okay? And if you feel like you’re different somehow, I dunno, if you like boys or prefer to wear dresses or whatever, and people tell you something is wrong with you, come to me and I’ll make sure you know there isn’t.”

“Aww. Thank you, Dean.” Jess puts a hand over her heart and smiles, genuinely touched. Knowing her brother ran away from home because he was gay (or bi) in a very bigoted congregation, this means something to her. “It feels like you’re one of the three fairy godmothers come to bless him.”

“Oh, I can go for that,” Hester says and steps behind Dean, standing on her tiptoes to look at Noah over his shoulder. “Hi, Noah. I’m your aunt Hester. My gift to you is that I’ll see to that whatever hobby catches your fancy, you’ll always have the resources to practise it, no matter what field it might be. And I’ll guarantee the funds for college, so you can choose wherever you want to go.”

“That’s a nice gift for someone you don’t know,” Sam states, impressed and maybe a bit disbelieving.

“Well, we _are_ family. And now that we’ve been properly introduced, I’m sure we’ll find an opportunity to get to know each other.”

“I’d like that…”

Dean zones them out because Nick sneaks up behind him and puts his arms around him. But he does so in a very significant way, slipping his hands inside Dean’s shirt, cupping his belly in the same manner he would if he’d just been breeding the living hell out of him, doing his best to get Dean pregnant. It’s fucking unfair and Dean envies Jess without feeling any ill-will towards her. He just knows that in this particular moment when Nick looks down at Noah while rubbing his nose against the shell of Dean’s ear and cupping his belly, Nick’s playing pretend in a game that nature has denied them due to both of them having dicks.

“Have a natural birth, they said. Don’t have an epidural, they said. It’ll be fun, they said.” Jess’ sarcastic voice penetrates the little bubble Dean’s in. Both he and Nick stifles laughter. “At one point I hated _everyone_. I don’t hate people but at that point, I wouldn’t have given a shit if everyone on earth dropped dead on the spot. It hurt so much. It felt like I had a hybrid between the Hulk and Wolverine clawing itself out of my vagina.”

“Do you still feel that way?” Hester asks with concern.

“No. When the pain started to recede, so did my hatred.”

“Oh. You almost got me worried. Mom _always_ suffered from postpartum depression and…”

Nick ignores his sister and focuses on the curious boy still holding on to Dean’s finger, drooling on it. “Hi, Noah. I’m your uncle Nick or Luci, whichever you prefer. And if you ever need someone to mysteriously disappear, or develop a limp or something along those lines, I’m your man.”

“Oh, my God,” Jess sputters, halfway between a laugh and outrage. “You did not just say that, Nick.”

Nick turns his head to give her a shiteating grin. “I might be the evil fairy godmother. It just so happens I work for _you_.”

Jess giggles tiredly. She really looks exhausted. Dean hands Noah back to her. It feels like the baby’s still holding onto a part of him when he retreats, even after the boy’s firm grip on his finger is dislodged. That’s probably the point. Babies are supposed to steal part of your soul or they’d all be dumped in the woods after the first night of non-stop screaming. Dean spots Sam staring at Nick, even if Nick’s attention is fully on mother and child. Then Sam glances at Dean, notices that Dean’s seen him stare and promptly averts his eyes.

Dean wonders how badly Sam had fallen for Nick and fucking hates the flare of jealousy inside his chest. Sam can moon all he wants. This is just one of the things they’ll have to move past. He trusts Nick, and Sam and Jess are happy together nowadays. It’s just that feelings are complicated. Dean’s are, so Sam’s ought to be too. “Hey, Jess. You look exhausted. Thanks for letting us come by to visit. I think we’d better leave you three for now, but I’ll stop by in a coupla days at your place instead, okay?”

Jess nods. “You’re always welcome. Thanks for coming.” As if Jess and Sam hadn’t been the ones doing him a favour by allowing the visit to start with.

Dean leans down to give her a one-armed, careful hug not to squish the baby, then hugs Sam too.

After everyone has said goodbye, Nick―the fucking asshole―just has to end it with a sly smirk and a “Goodbye, Sammy,” throwing Sam one last wink before he exits. 

Dean lets it slide for now. He’s filled up with thoughts of Noah. Noah had such long nails. It never occurred to him that a newborn would have such perfect hands. Or such alert eyes. He thinks about how lucky he really is. If Sam hadn’t gone and gotten himself snipped, he'd never would have gotten to hold his newborn son in his arms. It’s never been something he wanted, but having gotten to experience it, it'll be one of the most precious moments in his life. 

“Hessie, could you take a left here?” he asks on the way home.

She gives him a questioning look through the rear view mirror but nevertheless takes a left and follows his directions, parking in the parking lot of their impromptu destination. Dean gets out of the car and looks around. It’s a good sized parking lot just off the freeway and to the right, a road leads to a good sized community that mostly consists of middle-class people who have well-tended gardens. This place hadn’t been chosen at random. The building before them might have been unused for decades, but it hadn’t been left untended. Dean thinks about what Marlon said, that he'd bought many gifts he'd never had a chance to give. 

Nick and Hester get out of the car after him.

“Hey, Nicky, I ain’t got my lock picks on me. Could you do us the favour?”

Nick doesn’t say anything as he crouches down in front of the storefront doors and efficiently picks the lock. 

“We could get arrested,” Hester points out. 

“Nu-uh. They can't arrest the owner for entering his property.”

“This is the place Luci inherited?”

“Yeah, it is.”

Dean tries the light switch as he enters. The place has electricity switched on, meaning bills have been regularly paid. The store part is fairly big. “One could sell gardening equipment, fertilisers and shit here, aside from cut flowers, potted flowers, and the usual stuff,” Dean remarks as they walk around to explore. Nick doesn’t answer. His jaw muscles work continuously. There’s a staff room, shower, an office, storages, a fridge room. “With enough staff, one wouldn't need to bother talking to customers,” he muses. There are three connected greenhouses to use as plant nursery or whatever. “This came with the surrounding land, did it not?”

Nick grunts an affirmative. 

“You know what would be really cool? If one built a fourth greenhouse on the other side of the parking lot and turned it into a cafe. Like, make a perpetual Eden, where people could come to enjoy lush greenery and fragrant flowers year round. Kinda showing off what the store can do. It’s walking distance to the closest community, and near the freeway. It'd draw enough customers.”

“A perfect place for a date,” Hester remarks. 

Dean keeps spouting ideas as they walk around exploring. Nick doesn't answer. His expression remains unreadable. 

“Hester? Could you wait in the car? I'd like to have a word with my husband in private.”

Hester nods and leaves. Nick turns towards him and waits. Dean wraps his arms loosely around him. “Baby, we haven't talked about the future… I know that most likely our respective jobs will force us to travel. But I'd like to live here. I want Sammy close and to watch Noah grow up. You'd do well to have a front for your real job and… it doesn't have to be this. But… I just…”

Nick looks around before he nods. “Sounds like a plan, darling.”

“Really?”

Nick smirks. “Really really. It's not like I have any plans of my own except being with you. I don't mind wrecking havoc in an Eden of my own. Us against the world, that was the deal, wasn’t it?”

Dean beams at him. The future looks brighter than ever.

* * *


	104. Convalescence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a couple of shorter chapters so I can update more frequently. :)

* * *

# Convalescence

Naomi drags Nick back to bed by his ear.

“Nanaaa,” Nick whines. “I’m a grown man!”

“Yes. And when you start acting like it, I’ll treat you as such,” Naomi scolds sternly. “Now back to bed with you. Doctor’s orders.”

Nick sulks. They’d both been ordered bedrest due to the concussions. Or rather ‘rest without doing anything strenuous for the brain’, which means no reading, no Internet, no crosswords, and so on and so forth. On top of that, the siblings had decided to do an intervention when it came to pills. It’s hard, when it comes to people like them that desperately _need_ pain relief since you can't cut off the supply completely, but it hadn’t gone unnoticed that both of them had been abusing medication to get high. As such, they now had to ask either Cas or Hester for it since they are the best equipped to say no, if they deemed it necessary. 

Dean has no problem with that. Riding out withdrawals isn’t all that hard if he has a good motivation. Mave and Nick back by his side is all he needs to find the strength. That’s not to say he hadn’t been a little bitch about it, but it’s all good. Besides, there are few things that tire you out as quickly as a dinged up brain, and with Mavis around to keep his nightmares in check, Dean sleeps like a baby for a great part of the day.

His leg is fine again. He noticed that when he tumbled out of bed to go to the toilet and forgot to bring his crutch. He does keep mostly still and doesn’t put much weight on it. Not more than needed to go to the toilet, take a bath, or move to the armchair (Noah’s birth the exception.) He stays in the room and welcomes all company.

Nick? Not so much.

Unlike Dean, he’s allowed to move around as long as he doesn’t do anything taxing. So he’ll take short walks with Mavis or go sit in the garden. Naomi must be watching him like a hawk because anytime he does something that would be considered taxing for the brain, she’ll do this - shoo him back into bed with Dean.

Dean might love Naomi a little when she goes into mom-mode.

Nick’s acting in a peculiar mix of doting love bug and nasty bitch from hell. His bad conscience keeps him by Dean’s side more firmly than any doctor’s order can. But he's downright nasty to his siblings, even Mike. 

Naomi stands with her arms crossed, staring demandingly at Nick until he sulkily crawls under the comforter and cuddles up to Dean’s side, throwing stinky-eyes at Naomi. Dean all but purrs.

* * *

The doctor clears Dean for using his leg as long as he doesn't overtax it when he gets his cast removed. As a result, Dean too starts taking walks. Mostly without Nick since Nick wants to be left alone. 

“Hey, Nicky. I was thinking about visiting Sam and Jessi to see my nephew. Do you think―“ Dean opens the door to the bathroom when he notices that Nick’s not in the bedroom when he comes back from a walk. 

Nick’s curled to a ball in the corner beside the tub, arms around his legs and head tucked in behind his knees. His shoulders are shaking and Dean can hear stifled sobs.

Dean all but throws himself at Nick on the floor, trying to scoop him into an embrace. “Hey, hey, baby, what's happened? What is it?”

Nick tries to push him away, averting his face to hide the state he's in. “ _Fuck off!_ Leave me alone!” His eyes and nose are red, skin splotchy and tear streaked, voice absolutely _wrecked._

Dean uses Nick’s useless push to grab and tug him firmly against his chest, wrapping his arms around him in a locking grip. “Fuck that. I ain’t goin’ anywhere. I’ve got ya. I’ve got ya, baby.”

Instead of keeping up the fight with Dean, Nick leans into him, clings, buries his head in Dean’s chest and lets out one wailing sob after another. He’s crying so hard, with such soul-shattering grief it breaks Dean’s heart into a million pieces and scares him half to death since he doesn’t know _why_ Nick’s crying. For all he knows, something might have happened to Mike or Mave. 

He’s struggling not to cry along with Nick because Nick’s pain is so evident and so, so soul crushing. He’s getting snot and tears all over Dean. Dean couldn’t care less. He rocks Nick and coos reassuringly, uttering nonsense words that don't mean a thing except to express sympathy.

Nick must have cried for nearly fifteen or twenty minutes when his tears finally start to subside, turning into the occasional hiccuped sniffle. He’s warm and sweaty from the exertion. Dean reaches out, tugs down a towel from the wall and hands it to Nick. “Here. Blow your nose.”

Nick dries his face and blows his nose, then adjust his position, crawling to lie between Dean’s legs, hugging his midriff and resting his head against Dean’s chest.

Dean strokes him over the head and keeps quiet for a long while, just holding him and petting him. Finally, he says, “Talk to me, buddy.”

Nick remains quiet for a while longer. Then, “I hated him… I would have killed him without any hesitation. Nothing he could have said could have changed that. I fucking hated him. And how could I forgive Mikey if I didn’t put the blame on dad?” There’s no heat in his voice.

Dean relaxes. It’s about Marlon. Mike and Mave are fine. “ _Ey._ Don’t ask me. I always forgave my dad. Came straight home when I got booted from the army. Wanted to be with my dad and brother no matter what they’d done to me. You know how that went, but yeah…”

“It doesn’t make any sense, darling. I fucking _miss_ him. I can’t get him out of my mind. And since he died, my traitorous mind keeps reminding me of the good stuff, grazing over all the bad as if it was nothing.”

“I dunno, baby, I think it does make sense.”

“ _How_? Tell me how the fuck it makes sense!”

“You hated him, yeah, but you didn’t hate him because he beat ya. You can take a beating and keep lovin’ without breaking a sweat, right? You hated him because you thought he didn’t care and didn’t respect ya. But his last words to ya…” Dean pauses to stroke Nick’s hair out of his face and places a kiss on his forehead. Nick’s hair is getting long. It’s time for him to cut it soon. He’s the most comfortable with short hair. “He validated your choices, your sexuality, your love, and expressed pride in ya. Then it turned out he didn’t disown ya, and that he had made the arrangements to let you follow your dreams, despite how it went against his wishes… You saw the paperwork. The plant nursery was bought just months after you joined the army, and was routinely cleaned, repaired, and updated. If you’d come home after one tour, and tried to reconcile…”

“He took Mikey from me.”

“Yeah. But not until it got sexual. And…” Dean takes a deep breath. “He might not have wanted you to be lovers, but his main concern wasn’t the incest, but the consequences that could have come from you getting caught. If he really didn’t think of you as his son anymore, he would never have accepted me as a son-in-law. But he did…” Another kiss is placed on Nick’s forehead. “Baby, you don’t have to forgive him. But it’s okay if you do. It’s okay if you miss him, or if you miss all the could-have-would-have-should-haves. Feelings aren’t supposed to make sense. You just have them and that’s okay, okay? I ain’t gonna hold it against ya for missing him despite wanting to kill him in the first place. He was your _dad_ , babe.”

“I don't want to miss him.”

“I miss him too,” Dean confesses. 

“You didn't know him, darling. Everything he said to you was said to manipulate you.”

“You know what, babe? It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if nothing he said and did was the real him because it's the only way I know him. He never had a chance to prove the opposite. He treated me a great deal better than my own dad ever did. I’ve felt… I’ve felt very guilty about not hating him, about wishing you’d reconcile so I didn’t have to think of him as the enemy. You said he knew exactly how to get under people’s skin to get what he wanted. And I guess he did. He did get under my skin. The way he treated me, the things he said… he made me feel worthy. Like I’m someone you could be proud of, like I’m smart, and have a place in this family. Like… I dunno. He made me feel good about who I am. That, um… it doesn’t come naturally for me.”

“I hate that he made you feel that way. Not because I don’t want you to feel that way, but because he made me feel the exact opposite. Since my late teens, we could barely be in the same room without fighting. The exception was the stable. He was different around horses. You saw. He turned into a giant dork. He always had endless patience around animals. With us… with me too, then. It felt like those were the only moments he wasn’t trying to get me to be who he wanted me to be.”

“Is that why you’ve been going down to the horses? Like a safe space?”

Nick shrugs noncommittally. “There were other good moments too, I just… he used those good moments to push. Like I remember him bringing me along to a boxing title fight in Vegas. He brought a few others along too, men whose companies he wanted to buy, buttering them up. Before the game started he told me that there were ways to integrate one's interests with the job. Just like he was doing by taking those men with him to the fight. He said that most high-ups had housewives, who cared for the homes and more specifically the gardens, and by winning the wives approval one could win their husbands since it’s a woman’s job to control their men. Even then and there he was working on getting me to join the family business. He wanted me to use my interest for flowers like some kind of sales gimmick. The whole trip was still great, but he always wanted _something_ from me. All I wanted was to do was work with flowers, not dazzle people with my _knowledge_ of them. I don’t like people and I hate sucking up. I hated that I was always the disappointment for my father.”

“I got the idea that you two were the most alike. Before he lost his family and was forced to change or lose it all, I mean.”

Nick grunts and is quiet for a long time. “I don’t know, darling. Maybe that’s why we fought all the time? I really couldn’t say. He was all about control and I… I’m not. Or maybe I am, but not the same way. It doesn’t matter. So many things I knew as the absolute truth got turned on its ass in the wake of his death and I don’t know what to do about it. How to feel. It fucking hurts. And I… how can I fucking miss him so much? He’s been gone from my life for so fucking long. _How?_ And my confusion is what caused your accident. I just wanted everyone to leave me the fuck alone while I dealt with this shit. It’s not like it’s working. It never really does. I stay away until I can’t stand my own company anymore. I forgot what that shit does to you. I’m so fucking sorry, Dean. So, so fucking sorry.”

“I know, baby. It’s okay.”

“It’s fucking _not_ , and we both know it.”

“ _Eyy_. I beat the shit outta you for it. I’ve moved past it. Time for you to do the same.”

“Still…”

“No.” Dean wraps his arms tighter around Nick and buries his nose in his hair. “I love you, Nicholas,” he says quietly.

For some reason that sets Nick off crying again, but quietly sniffling this time. Dean holds him through it. He wishes he could tell Nick Marlon is alive, but if he did he’d fuck the whole thing up. It might even enrage Nick. So he stays quiet and lets Nick grieve.

* * *


	105. Keep The Same Appointments I Kept

* * *

# Keep The Same Appointments I Kept

Family meetings suck. Or, some of them does. Like this one. It’s about the future. The business side is still having problems and the Williams boys are all fucking idiots. Capital letter _Idiots_. It’s like they hadn’t heard a word Marlon said in his farewell video, or paid attention to any of the carefully planned details. They’re so fucking indoctrinated by his earlier teachings that Dean seriously would like to kick their fucking asses. Fine. Nick doesn’t say much right now but he isn’t arguing _against_ his brothers either, which is cause enough to earn him a whooping. Because right now they’re discussing their sisters’ future.

Anna wants to go to acting school but was promptly shut down. Now Hester’s the one put on the spot.

“...but there’s nothing to say I can’t have a job _and_ a husband,” Hester argues frustratedly.

“Managing a husband will be your job, Hessy,” Mike answers, face serious. They’re sitting around the same conference table as they did when they watched Marlon’s video. Anna and Hester at the short end of the table, Hannah, Gabe, and Cas on one side of the long end, Dean, Nick, and Mike on the other long end. Well. Calling Nick’s haphazard sprawl ‘sitting’ might not be overdoing it, but whatever.

“I have Master’s business degree from college, for crying out loud. I don’t see why I can’t be allowed to start my own thing,” Hester persists.

That’s right. Dean unknowingly stepped into a wormhole and got flung centuries back in time when men were even bigger idiots than they are today. He barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. Old money - ancient ideas. His arms are crossed over his chest and he balances his chair on its hind legs.

“It wouldn’t be seemly if the women in our family had to work,” Cas says decisively.

Dean’s fucking had it with this bullshit. He tips his head back and sings loudly, “ _You'll stumble in my footsteps... Keep the same appointments I kept... If you try walking in my shoes._ ”

The room goes quiet and everyone stares at him like they can’t believe he just did that.

“That was incredibly rude and insensitive,” Cas states coldly, silently bristling.

“Sweetheart, it was fucking _meant_ to be. Your dad left you one last message and you’re fucking ignoring it. As for rude, well _fuck you_. I spent my whole career in fear of being outed. I’m not ashamed of who I am, but for all my skills in the field, I’d still get booted if it got known I take it up the ass. I’ve been listening to your cow-dung for over an hour now and I’m sick of it. It’s the same shit as in the army. Your stocks are still falling and business partners are holding back on making deals because they’re unsure what’s going to happen with the new rule. Y’all been yapping about how you need to show everyone that nothing will change and now you’re shutting down your sisters’ happiness. I’m in a mind to leak Marlon’s video to the press because they’ll fucking get what y’all are so blatantly missing or ignoring.”

“And what’s that?” Gabe asks.

“Your dad was one hell of a leader. He was a groundbreaker. He was given a setup that forced him to follow a set of rules to survive, then he carved out new territory. He’s gone now and handed over leadership to y’all. And y’all are clamoring about how you need to show the world how you’ll keep walking the beaten path. If you do, you’ll repeat his mistakes and _stumble in his footsteps._ The last thing Marlon did, was a one-eighty to the left since his mistakes broke the family and he wanted to rectify that. As it stands right now, I’m the only person that can be openly gay in the whole Williams empire and not fear losing my job, solely because I’m a Williams who happen to be married to the black sheep. Sure, it’ll mean some won’t deal with me, but whatever. Not even you, Cas, can come out openly if y’all stay on the beaten path. You know, when I was at HQ and Marlon showed me around, he introduced me as his son-in-law to fucking _everybody_. He was about to introduce me as such to Sullivan too, but I shot myself in the foot and made my own introduction. But think about it. What would have happened if he did? Don’t answer that.”

Dean sits up straight. “Look. The last thing he did was ask you to follow him, and the last thing he did was openly endorsing Nick’s marriage and sexuality, throwing his right-winged, old-schooled Christian values to hell. Which means you don’t have to backtrack. It’s your time to be groundbreaking and choose new paths.”

“We’ll lose billions. And there are several major players that will abandon ship if we change our course,” Mike states but with an open, listening expression.

“Yeah, but you’re losing money already. And any fence-sitters will wait to see what happens. New leadership, new rules, right? What good is a leadership if you aren’t the ones to dictate which rules to adhere to? I’d say, fuck Sullivan and his stuffy bunch. Let them take their business elsewhere. Y’all been wanting to get in bed with Lightwood Inc and Horizon Tech, right? But y’all have had your noses too far up the ass of the Christian right-wing that they wouldn’t touch y’all with a fifty-foot pole. I say, let all your businesses fly the rainbow flag, give the same rights to LGBT peeps as you do to everyone else. Allow religious diversity too. I saw some shitty rule about turbans and hijabs being prohibited at your workplaces. Scrap that. Go liberal so you can be who you fucking want to be. And let your fucking sisters pursue their fucking dreams. Hannah is content with the old-school ideal. Hester and Anna aren’t. And really, you veer off left and all the sudden women with careers of their own will be the ideal.”

“My vote goes to Dean's suggestion,” Nick states and lights a cigarette disinterestedly.

“Let’s face it,” Dean goes on. “Y’all are wicked smart and stubborn as fuck. If anyone can pull off this change and make it a prosperous one, it’s you. If your old man could weather losing a third of his businesses and bounce back with more than he had before my dad fucked us all, so can you. Show the sons of bitches out there that you really are Marlon’s children.”

Cas, Mike and Gabe share one of those silent discussion-looks. 

“Very well. We’ll have to have a long discussion of how this overhaul will be designed and executed, but we concede that your suggestion holds some merit,” Cas declares.

Mike turns his attention to Anna. “We’ll let you take acting classes. But we want you to have certain standards for which roles to take if you make it in L.A. And let one of our lawyers go through any contracts before you sign.”

Anna shines as she nods eagerly.

Mike turns his attention towards Hester. “What business did you have in mind?”

Hester appears a bit dumbfounded. Like she’d never thought they’d agree even if she brought it up. “I, um… I have a number of ideas, but…” She looks at Nick. “Luci, are you going to open the plant nursery?”

Nick sucks in a deep breath of smoke, side-eyes Dean, then nods.

“Okay, because I really liked the idea of the greenhouse café.”

Nick blows out smoke sharply upward. “Only if you keep track of my books too. And the café has the same name as the store.”

“Absolutely!”

“Whatcha gonna name the store?” Dean asks.

Nick smirks. “Luci’s Eden,” he answers and winks at Dean.

* * *


	106. Take Two

* * *

# Take Two

During his convalescence sex had been out of the question. Mainly it was his rib fucking things up, but his combination of injuries effectively put a stop to any fun. Nick refused anything but gentle affection, feeling too guilty about causing the accident to risk slowing the healing down, and Mike was too concerned about Dean hurting to make any passes at him. But today before the family meeting he'd been cleared by the doctors to go back to normal living again.

The bed dips and Dean open his eyes to find Mike crawling over him. “Hey, babe. Nick still with Hester?”

“Yes. They'll be awhile,” Mike answers, intently nudging Dean’s legs apart and pushing at his shoulder in a silent command to lie on his back. 

Dean complies and Mike paws at Dean’s dick with one hand without preamble. Dean raises his head to see Mike tenting his suit pants. He chuckles and grins at Mike. “ _Damn_ , babe, you going for gold right off the bat?”

“Yes. You’ll stop me?”

Dean laughs, happy stars shooting through his body. “Hell no. Go for it, baby.”

Mike grunts with intense satisfaction and opens his fly to pull his dick out. Dean hears a click, realising Mike had the lube in his other hand. Mike lifts one of Dean’s legs to rest on his shoulder, then lubes himself up. He smears some lube on Dean’s hole, then lines himself up and starts pushing in slowly, but without any prep. This is Nick’s M.O., not Mike’s. Not like Dean’s complaining. Hell no! The opposite in fact.

Mike’s still fully dressed. He’s even got his shiny fucking shoes on. Shirt with rolled up sleeves, tie, pants, belt, watch, and rings are all in place and his eyes have a glow of up-to-no-good that flings Dean to full hardness and sets his heart aflutter. Mike sinks in just a little too fast and starts moving just a little too quickly for his usual careful self and Dean fucking loves it. The burn is just enough to set off his body’s natural response to pain, flooding him with additional endorphins and it feels so fucking good to finally be filled. Mike looks like the fucking boss he is, not the sweetheart Dean usually gets to see. He bares his teeth in a predator’s grin and fucks Dean fast and hard, batting Dean’s hands away when he tries to jerk himself off.

Mike comes quickly―in less than a minute―with a drawn out moan, then folds to press Dean down without pulling out. “This okay or is your rib…?”

Dean’s reeling, wondering what the fuck is happening, turned the fuck on. “It’s fine. Did you just come inside of me?”

“You bet,” Mike pants and sucks a visible mark on Dean’s throat. He keeps undulating his hips slowly, moving inside of Dean.

“Nick’s finally allowed you to do that?”

“No. And before he comes back I’m going to come inside of you so many times your belly’s bulging with it.” Another scorching hickey is sucked into Dean’s skin.

“Fuck yeah.” So that’s what this is. One of the competitive games between the brothers. Dean’s fully on board to watch this play out. He turns his head to kiss Mike, greedily licking into his mouth while pawing at his clothed ass to get him closer inside. Mike had started to go soft but Dean can feel him starting to get fully hard again. Mike might have the fastest recuperation time of all the lovers Dean’s had.

“You can't come until Luci does,” Mike commands into his mouth. “Show me some discipline, soldier.”

Oh, wow. Mike’s got a game thought up for sure. “Okay…”

“You made yourself very popular with my sisters. They call you their dark knight.”

Dean sniggers then sucks in a breath when Mike bites his neck. “Oh, _fuck_. Yeah. I’m their B.A.T. man,” he gasps. A private joke Mike won’t get. “You mad about it?”

“Not at all. After you left to walk Mave we rewatched dad's video and surmised that your interpretation might be right. None of us had analysed the lyrics to the song that thoroughly. Cas is mad like a bee. I’m not sure if it’s because you figured it out when he didn’t, or if it’s because you insist on calling him sweetheart like an insult.”

“ _Or_ , it could be that switching direction like that, will cause you so much more work and costs you tons of money.”

Mike sniggers. “Or it could be because your cocky ass issued all of us a challenge so hard we might fail.”

“Yeah? That’s why you’re set on pounding it?” Dean teases and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Baby, you’re not going to get your ass pounded tonight. It’s going to be _destroyed_ ,” Mike purrs in a way that sends shivers of anticipation down Dean’s spine.

“Bring it on. I can handle it.”

“You might regret saying that,” Mike says loftily in the way he does when he has ulterior motives. Then he pushes himself up into a sitting position and pulls Dean partway up his thighs, careful not to slip out. “Hold your legs for me.”

Dean hooks his arms in the bend of his knees, giving Mike a perfect view of his cock in Dean’s hole. Mike uncaps the lube, squirts on his fingers on one hand, then grabs his cock and slide his fingers upward pulling out almost all the way, then pushing in slowly, letting a finger follow his cock inside. It burns a tiny bit, but with so much lube it barely registers as a discomfort. The next time he pulls out and pushes in, two fingers follow his dick inside.

“Want to feel yourself inside of me, huh?”

“Mhm. Something like that,” Mike answers slyly. “So. What’s this I hear about Luci’s Eden?”

“We’re taking up permanent residence here in― _Oh, fuck!_ Fucking Christ. Jeezus, Mikee. Fucking _bring it_.” Three fingers go inside of him with the dick, widening Mike’s girth considerably. Dean writhes, trying to move with the motion to get Mike deeper inside.

“Keep still, soldier. Where are you going to live?” Mike smirks at Dean’s frustrated antics. Mike―the fucker―has come already. He’s in no hurry to speed up now. He’s taking his time, playing around, not a care in the world. 

“Du-dunno. We ha-haven’t t-talked about it. Maybe here? I-I think I want a, a house nearby. N-n-no servants. Maybe cleaning an’ w-washing once a, a, a week. _Fuck!_ ” 

“Uh-huh,” Mike answers flatly. “So… is there any place for me in that house?”

“Y-y-yes, please. Fuck, Michael. Just fuck me. Screw this. Comeonecomeoncomeon―” Dean begs as Mike continues to stretch him. Mike pulls out his cock and adds more lube to his hand. Dean’s just about to protest when Mike sinks his hand in to the knuckles, twisting his hand slowly, trying to get further in, pushing the limits for what Dean can take. Dean gasps for air, starting to sweat. “Fuck, Mike, you tryna to _fist_ me?” he gasps incredulously.

“If that what it takes, yes.”

“Takes for what? Mike―”

“Keep quiet and take it. If you can take the pain of Luci cutting you up, you can take this for me,” Mike coos.

He’s got a point. He’s balancing the limit between pleasure and pain, leaning just towards the more painful side, but he’s going slow enough to give Dean time to adjust enough to keep himself (somewhat) in control. “Need to flip over or I won’t― I can’t―”

Mike pulls out his hand, grabs Dean’s hips and manhandles him onto his belly. He lies down on top of Dean, his cock sinking in to the root with laughable ease. He kisses Dean’s neck and shoulders, nibbles his earlobe and starts fucking in earnest. Dean keens as Mike adjusts his angle, hitting his sweet spot. He can feel himself building up, humming, buzzing, tickling all through his body, balls squeezing and― 

Mike grunts and comes with a punched out sound, he grinds a couple of times, milking himself, then pulls out. He sits up behind Dean and jerks Dean’s ass up, effectively cutting off all stimuli of both dick and prostate. “Tell me about the house. What requirements do you have?” he asks, winded but calm, and adds more lube to his hand. 

Dean wants to scream with frustration. But Mike had said he wasn't allowed to come until Nick’s come. “Soundproof, so nobody can hear me scream when Nick and I play. A fireplace, in case we need to burn evi _deeeeeence!_ Oh, fuck fucking _hell!_ ” Mike’s hand slips in, a little push and Mike’s knuckles pass his rim.

“Go on.”

Dean’s laugh might be a little hysterical. Just a tad. Mike’s never been the one to play pleasure/pain games, but he obviously can. Now he's holding his hand still to let Dean’s hole adjust. “Uh… indoor garage with no windows, so no one can see what we load or unload from our cars. High bushes or walls, preventing paparazzi and neighbours to see me walk around naked in the yard…”

* * *

When Nick comes to the bedroom, Mike’s come inside of Dean four times already. Supposedly most of it must have leaked out of him already while Mike fisted him. ( _Holy shit! Mike **fisted** him!_ ) It’s strange how things work. Had Mike asked in advance, he’d said no, thinking he couldn’t take it. Whelp, he’d been wrong. He can take it. It had been a near thing for a while. Mike making him talk about other things had helped. Mike had switched back and forth between fucking and working him open and now he’s a mess. Cock aching from being brought to the edge of coming over and over, hole throbbing and body soaked in sweat. He’s sitting crouched over Mike (who’s still in his clothes!) after having ridden him to another orgasm. Mike pulls him down to lie chest pressed against chest when Nick enters the room.

“Well, well… what do we have here?” Nick purrs. “Having fun without me, I see…”

“Filled your boy up with four loads so far,” Mike teases. “That’s what happens when you leave your things unattended for too long.”

Dean, panting, too beat to turn his head to look at Nick, smiles against Mike’s chest. For once he doesn’t mind being referred to as a thing. It doesn’t feel like it’s meant like something negative against him, rather, it’s a tease pointed at Nick.

“Really, now? And what do you think I’m going to do about that?” Nick muses, voice cold.

“Oh, I have a suggestion,” Mike says, the sly smirk back in place. He scoots down a little bit and cups Dean’s ass. He pulls Dean’s asscheeks apart, strains a bit to reach Dean’s hole, hooks his fingers in the rim and pulls. Dean’s abused hole relaxes to gape around Mike’s cock easily.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Nick curses breathily. “Mave. Go to your room.” Mavis claws click on the floor. They go in the wrong direction, leaving the room rather than going to his crate in the bathroom. Nick doesn’t seem to care, closing the door after the dog. Dean feels the bed dip and hears the lube bottle being uncapped.

It’s not until a moment later when Nick places himself behind Dean and smacks his dick against Dean’s ass that Mike’s ‘ _If that’s what it takes_ ’ makes sense to him.

_Oh._

_Oooh!_

_Fuck, I didn’t think of that!_

Nick lines himself up and starts pushing in. It goes smoothly and feels so much better than a fucking hand, while at the same time stretching him and filling him up fucking perfectly. 

_“Fuck!”_   
_“Fuck!”_

For once it's Nick and Dean cursing in sync. 

_Holy shit, I'm taking them both!_

Mike chuckles darkly. “Perfect. You’re both perfect. Luci, I haven’t let Dean come. I wanted him to come with both of us inside of him. He's been begging for it. Are you going to let him, or does he have to wait his turn?”

Nick runs a finger over the hickeys and bite-marks on Dean’s neck and shoulders. He hums thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Mikey. He let you mark him up pretty good. Maybe he should be punished for it?” Nick starts moving in lazy thrusts. Both Dean and Mike gasps. 

_“Please, baby, pleeease,_ ” Dean begs. 

Nick grabs him by the hair and pulls him up and holds him up by wrapping his forearm around Dean’s chest. “You want to come, darling?”

“ _Yesyesyesyesyes―_ ”

“Think you can hit my fuckhead brother in the eye from here?”

Mike stifles a laugh.

“Yes! _Please_! Just lemme―”

Nick chuckles darkly, reaches around to stroke Dean’s cock. Adding perfect pressure. Combined with his slow undulating movements inside of Dean, Dean’s orgasm―hovering at the edge already by constant teasing (Mike’s good at knowing when to stop)―doesn’t take long in coming. He grabs a hold of Nick’s forearm and cries out, squeezing his eyes shut, nearly whiting out when he comes. He’s only vaguely aware of Mike cursing and Nick’s mean snigger. Dazedly he opens his eyes to see that Mike’s making a face, squinting one eye shut, glaring at Nick with his other, a long streak of come from his clothed chest to forehead. It’s his own damned fault for building Dean up.

Nick lets go of Dean and gives him a little shove so he topples over. Then he grabs Dean’s hips and starts pounding in earnest. Dean’s too spent to do more than just cling to Michael, but Mike gasps and moans and thrusts along with his brother. Suddenly Mike goes rigid underneath him, then shudders a couple of times. “Again? _Really?_ ” Dean asks drowsily.

Mike laughs breathlessly.

“You little _shit_ ,” Nick grits out through clenched teeth. Dean can feel warm come leak out of his ass, confirming that Mike did indeed shoot his load a fifth time for the evening.

“No, little brother, you’re the one being a little shit, taking life-altering decisions without me, and mistreating our loved one the way you did,” Mike answers with a sated, self-satisfied smirk while scraping Dean’s neck with his nails and caressing his back with his other hand. ‘ _Loved one_ ’ is a better name than ‘thing’. “Your rules no longer apply. From now on I’ll fill him up any chance I’ve got. Turn your back for too long…” he teases.

Dean chuckles tiredly. This means sex is going to be plentiful. He’ll reap the benefits of this new competition. Nick speeds up his thrusts so Mike has to wrap his arms around him to stabilise him. Nick pushes Dean’s hips down, leaning over him slightly, changing his angle so his cock presses down firmly on Mike’s spent, over-sensitive one. 

“Holy shit! Luci! _Oh my Goood!_ ” Mike keens.

Nick comes with a punched out grunt, grinds a couple of times to milk himself then falls forward to lie heavily on top of Dean, panting in his ear. He’s still got his clothes on too. Dean wonders if that also is a part of whatever game the brothers are playing.

“That was… that was…” Mike fumbles for words.

“Yeah…” Dean agrees.

Nick doesn’t say anything. He lies panting for a moment then crawls upward a bit to reach Mike’s face. Instead of kissing him like Dean thought he was going to, he licks up the stripe of Dean’s come, including licking Mike’s eye.

“Pfft! _Hey!_ Stop it, Luci,” Mike laughs, trying to evade getting his eyeball licked. Dean chuckles and pushes with his head to hinder Mike from getting away.

“I’m helping you,” Nick purrs.

“I can do without getting my eyeball licked, you freak.”

“I don’t know about that. It stings, getting dick juice in your eye,” Nick teases and tries to lick Mike’s eye again.

Dean feels stupidly relaxed and happy. This sure isn’t the last time he’ll take the both of them. But the next time, maybe he won’t have to take a fucking fist in preparation. Nick’s heavy on his back, but it’s a good weight. Mike’s pinned down by both of them. He can only move arms and head, but judging by his grin and giggling, he feels just like Dean.

After a moment of being silly Nick pushes himself up and away, causing Mike to finally slip out of Dean too. It makes Dean feel empty. Nick undresses, opens the door to a crack big enough for Mavis to come in through when he comes back, then goes to fetch a towel for Dean, that he uses to dry Dean’s leaking hole off. Then he pushes Dean off Mike. Dean lies with a sated smile and watches as Nick struggles with Mike to get Mike’s clothes off, Mike putting up a token fight, giggling like a loon.

Afterwards, when they’re all naked and lying under the covers, Mike speaks. “I heard you’re planning to take up permanent residence here.” Dean’s got his eyes closed and is breathing heavily as if he’s asleep. He isn’t. He’s just lying in lovely comfort, enjoying how he still can feel his pulse throb in his abused ass.

“Yes. Dean wants to be close to Sam and Noah,” Nick answers from Dean’s other side.

“No. I’m putting my foot down. You’re coming to live with me in my penthouse,” Mike says with a finality in his voice.

Dean gets a sinking feeling in his gut. “Oh… Um. Okay…”

“ _Okay?_ ”  
“ _Okay?_ ”

Both brothers sound equally perplexed. Dean opens his eyes but can’t see their faces very well in the semi-darkness.

“Yeah, I mean, I guess… I _want_ to live here, but there are cars and airplanes and stuff. We didn’t ask you. We shoulda. I kinda just assumed… with our HQ being here an’ all…” he _tries_ not to sound too disappointed about it.

“Dammit, Dean,” Nick scolds.

At the same time, Mike says, “No. It’s not ‘ _okay_ ’. Of course, we’re staying here, moron! I was jabbing at Luci for making the decision without informing me. I thought you were asleep.”

“Oh.” Dean relaxes again.

“Yes. As things stand, staying here is the most convenient for all of us. Luci, Dean said he wants me to live with you. You’re alright with that?”

“To me, it’s a given.”

Mike heaves a relieved sigh and cuddles closer to Dean. “Good. It’s all good, then.”

* * *


	107. Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks. We're looking at about three more chapters after this. I'm trying to be done by 110. 
> 
> This chapter holds the key to why this op3 relationship will work out in the long run. :)

* * *

# Moonlight

Dean wakes up in the middle of the night, moonlight pooling in to reveal that it’s no longer overcast outside and that Mavis has come back to join them some time since they fell asleep. Nick’s lying flat on his back, one arm outstretched to pillow both Dean and Mike’s heads, and his other arm pillowing and cradling Mavis. The dog too is lying on his back, front paws tucked against his chest and back legs spread wide. Both of them are snoring. Mike, on the other hand, is cuddled as close as he can get against Dean, one arm and one leg thrown over chest and thighs.

Dean would appreciate it a great deal more if he didn’t desperately need to use the bathroom.

It takes him awhile to untangle himself. He doesn’t think anyone of his bedmates woke up. He makes his way to the bathroom. He turns the light on and sits down to pee. It feels like he needs to poop, but the only thing coming out is come and lube. “Figures,” he mutters to himself. He dries his ass and dabs some paper on the tip of his dick. This need-to-poop feeling is common when you go in the back way, but since he takes it up the ass so frequently he usually doesn’t get this feeling. But it had been six weeks since he had sex and then they went straight for the hardcore stuff. Of course, his ass is gonna act like a friggin virgin.

_Totally worth it._

The bathroom has a window with frosted glass. After Dean’s flushed, he goes to it and opens it up. The outside air is fresh, but balmy and warm. It’s a perfect night. The moon paints everything in a silver light and lets him see the well-tended garden below. Crickets chirp, and somewhere off in the forest he thinks he can hear an owl hooting.

The door behind him opens but he doesn’t turn around. Someone winds their arms around him. The lighter build tells him it’s Mike before he speaks. “There you are, soldier. I wondered where you’d gone,” Mike says and kisses his shoulder tenderly.

“Feelin’ needy, huh?” Dean wraps his arms around Mike’s on his stomach and leans back against Mike’s chest. “Just takin’ a piss. S a nice night. Wish I could step outside naked right now.”

“So why don’t we?” Mike asks. He’s put on sleeping pants on since he got out of bed, so he’s not naked. That’s hardly the point.

“What about the staff?”

“I thought you liked showing yourself off?”

Dean chuckles. “Well, if you put it that way…” He twists around in Mike’s arms and rests his hands on Mike’s hips. 

Mike smiles softly at him. “I love you, Dean.”

Dean believes him. It’s such a fucking great feeling he could get high off of it. The trust that was once so horrendously broken, is restored. “Love you too, babe.”

* * *

“Damn. I forgot my cigarettes. I swear, having no pockets is the only downside of being naked,” Dean complains while they stroll hand in hand through the garden. They keep on the stone paved path, but some of the gravel on the side of it has found its way onto the stones, hurting tender soles when they step on them. Dean kinda loves it. He loves feeling the texture of the ground under his feet, whether it be soft grass or jagged gravel.

Mike lets go of his hand to dig up Dean’s cigarettes from a pocket in his sleeping pants. He doesn’t hand them to Dean. Instead, he taps the lighter and a cigarette out, puts the pack back in his pocket, puts the cigarette in his mouth and lights it. Dean stares mesmerized as the flame paints Mike’s face in golden hues. It’s weird, when Mike puts cigarettes in his mouth. He pockets the lighter and holds the cigarette out to Dean with a lopsided smirk. “Here you go, honey.”

Dean chuckles in bemusement as he takes it. “Thanks, babe. You think of everything, huh?”

Mike smiles almost shyly and looks down at his feet. “I like to take care of you. ...I know you don’t need it, but it makes me feel good to dote on you.”

“I probably need it a great deal more than you think,” Dean admits and takes a deep drag on the cigarette.

Mike looks up and meets his gaze. “I, uh… I wanted to apologize for hurting you tonight.”

“Hurting me?”

“I know it was painful, when I went in with my whole hand like that.”

“Dude. It was fucking worth it. I never thought I could take a fucking fist. And I’ve been _wanting_ to take both of y’all, but I haven’t dared, thinking it would hurt too much. I’ve taken big cocks before, but both of you are decently sized and together… I just thought there was no way I could do it. I’m actually a bit proud of myself for it.” Dean gives Mike a lopsided grin and wonders if the moonlight reveals that he’s blushing.

“It was Cas that gave me the idea―”

Dean throws his head back laughing. “You’re fucking _kidding_? What? He said ‘Someone should ram their fist up Dean’s idiotic asshole’, and you went ‘Why, yes. I think I’ll do just that’.”

Mike chuckles. “No. Not quite. He said that you were reckless. That when you were put on the spot with no time to think, you’ll push through with no consideration for possible damages. He was referring to the accident as well as your play at the meeting. We all appreciate this streak in you. Even Cas, despite his grumblings. But that’s what gave me the idea. I thought that if I just did it, not giving you time to think, you’d go along with it. It’s not… It’s not really my style. I had to think ‘what would Luci do’? I’m not comfortable taking from you what I know you’d say no to if I’d asked in advance.”

Dean blows a couple of smoke rings and smiles. He reaches out to stroke Mike’s shirtless midriff. “Ey. It’s fine. Really. If I wanted it to stop, I woulda made sure you stopped. It was fucking _hot_ , okay? I don’t get to see you go full boss very often. I wouldn’t be averse to having you do it more often.”

Mike smirks and steps closer. “Really, now? I’ll remember that.” He leans in and attaches his lips to Dean’s throat. Dean can feel him suck, bettering on the hickey there. The hickey he placed, that Nick then covered with his own.

Dean giggles. “Is this gonna be a thing?”

“What? Marking you up?”

“Competing about whose mark will be on top.”

“Most likely, yes. Which brings me to something else I wanted to apologise to you for. I said Luci shouldn’t leave his things unattended. It doesn’t mean I think of you that way. It was meant to provoke Luci.”

“You know what? I got that, this time. It didn’t feel aimed at me.”

“Good. I had an ulterior motive with what I did tonight…” Mike grabs Dean’s hand and starts walking. The air is heavy with fragrance from the flowers in the garden. There’s no wind, and the smoke Dean exhales seems to hang still for ages before it dissipates. “When I came home to meet you and Luci both being carried out on stretchers… it was one of the worst experiences in my life.”

“Sorry about that. I’ll tell you the next time something happens.”

“That’s not what I was about to say. Luci and I, we’ve always been in competition. We’ll always be locked in friendly rivalry. It’s not malicious. We take each other’s sides. And yet, we compete. I don’t think that will ever stop, and you will get caught in the middle.”

Dean sniggers. “I’ve noticed.”

“Indeed.” Mike smirks. “So when I figured out what had happened to cause you both to end up in the hospital, I decided I had to do something about it. It has taken me awhile to come up with a plan to prevent the situation from reoccurring… You know Luci is scared to death of losing you, right? Even if it’s just to lose you to me. Should it happen, he’d accept it, but he’ll do his best to be proactive. So my idea was to issue him a challenge. Neglect you for too long, and I’d make a move on you to keep you as my own without sharing.” Dean stops and gives him an incredulous look. Mike quickly raises his hand to forestall any protests. “I’m not saying you’d ever leave him,” he hastens to add. “But as long as he fears the risk, he’ll think twice before pushing you away like he did.”

“Wow. You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

“I did, yes. I understand that you need to know you’ve got our total devotion not to shy away. Luci and I, well, we don’t. Our love for each other has always been unconditional to a point where we occasionally harm each other, even purposefully, physically or emotionally. But we always flow back together. I can see that if we’d take you for granted the same way, we’d lose you. I want to ask you not to interfere in our competition, when it’s about you, even when we use insensitive words. I don’t mean you shouldn’t put your foot down if we overstep, but if we’re just toeing the line, talk to us in private afterwards. Air it out like we do now, when we don’t have to worry about keeping up appearance. When we can be vulnerable and open.”

A small, bemused smile plays on Dean’s lips. “Sure. I can do that.” He snorts in amusement and shakes his head. “I don’t really get how we got from your fist up my ass, to this, but alright.”

“You know… I’ve been fantasising about taking you with Luci like that since the start of our relationship. Even though I didn’t think I’d ever get to see Luci again, sometimes I’d imagine what it’d be like.”

“Really? Was it what you’d imagined?”

“Better.”

“Good. Cause that wasn’t the last time. Now I know I can take it, I won't hesitate to do it again. You ever DPd anyone before?”

“No. Not like that. We've tag-teamed girls, and spit roasted… but never like that. Definitely not with such strong feelings involved. I hadn’t figured out the nature of my feelings for Luci back then, remember?”

Dean smirks. He’s fairly certain that if Mike had known what he was feeling, he’d have found a sneaky way to make it happen. They come to the fountain and Dean lifts his foot to dip his toes in the water experimentally. It’s colder than the night air, and makes his skin prickle. “You okay with moving to a regular house?”

“Sure. We might still spend nights here due to convenience. But absolutely.” 

Dean sits down on the edge of the fountain pool, putting both of his feet in the water. Both the water and the stone are cold, and it makes him shiver, but he enjoys the contrast to the balmy air. Mike sits down beside him, facing the other direction, and leans against his shoulder. Mike’s skin feels scorching, adding to the experience. “I miss doing grocery shopping. And when I tried doing my own cooking here, the kitchen staff looked like they were about to have heart attacks every last one of them. Afterwards, they’ve listed their credentials I don’t know how many times, just to ensure me that they are good enough to cook for me. I guess we’ll still eat a lot of takeout, like Cas does. Long days an’ all. I just want my home to be mine, you feel me?” Dean explains.

“I do. I feel that way about my penthouse. That’s not to say I don’t love it here, but there’s something special about having your own home.”

“Yeah… you know I never actually had that? Ever since I left home for the army, I never got an apartment of my own. On leave, I lived with my boyfriends, crashed on friends’ couches, or rented motel rooms.”

“I didn’t know that.”

They’re silent for awhile, each lost in thought.

Mike suddenly snorts a little laugh and shakes his head. “You know we’re going to have to have the house built, right?”

“How so?”

“Your requirements. I had to bite my tongue not to laugh when you listed them.”

“Why?”

“ _Why?_ Soundproof? Fireplace to burn evidence? Drains in the floor of every room on the ground floor to make it easy to wash away blood with a high-pressure washer? Hidden wall for equipment and guns?” Mike sniggers and shakes his head again. “Most people want a patio or a hot tub. But _you_ …”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, well. With Nick’s future career an’ all. Plus, I don’t want to have Sam an’ Jess over for dinner, then have Jess stumbling over things she shouldn’t see. Like wondering why there are ten different passports with my face on them, or why we have silencers for our guns. Or neighbours calling the cops because they hear me scream.”

“Makes sense. You said yes to Luci about carving you?”

“He hasn’t asked.”

“Really? He’s been bugging me about the sketches for the wings. He’s already chosen two he can’t decide between. One pair that spreads to wrap around your arms, and one pair that folds down your back.”

“Not the arms. I want to be able to cover them up with a tee.”

“You’re going to say yes?”

Dean nods. “I’ve started looking forward to it. But only if he asks.”

“He will. Considering how he’s been pouring over those sketches, I think he’s building up the fantasy until he dares make the suggestion. It’s a bold thing to ask of someone you love, even for him.”

“You gonna tell him I’ll say yes?”

“No. I still think it’s madness.”

Dean sniggers and blows another smoke ring. “If you wanted a mentally sound boyfriend, you shouldn't have gone for me.”

Mike smiles softly and looks at a nearby rose bush. “I don’t think I know how to love a healthy person without getting bored and make bad things happen on purpose, just to liven things up. I've tried. I just lose interest. I'm the happiest building my house on top of an active volcano, so to speak. I can’t generate that kind of explosive heat myself, but I need it to keep my own fire burning.”

“Wow. That’s some hardcore self-analysis.”

“I suppose. But I think all my siblings share this to an extent. We're adrenaline junkies in an emotional sense.”

“That’s why you like a clusterfuck like myself.”

“Oh, no. You misunderstand. We don’t view you like a fuck up. It’s more appropriate to call you a joker in the game. Unpredictable and very, very powerful. Anytime you make a play, you change the game.” Dean blushes and smiles shyly. Mike chuckles darkly and leans closer to kiss him, but stops short. “Oh, and before I forget. We decided that Monday next week would be a good day to go down to the stables again, all of us together. Is that okay?”

Dean dips his cigarette in the water and drops it on the ground. “Yeah, okay.” He twists his body to kiss Mike properly, slow and sensuously. “Make love to me?” he asks as they break off to breathe. Mike might have come five times already, but it doesn't stop him from obliging. This time, on a spot on the well-manicured grass not far from the fountain, he makes it all about Dean’s pleasure, helping him forget about going back to the stables in less than a week…

* * *


	108. Hank Dixon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter warning:** REALLY BAD SOUTHERN ACCENT! (I think) I'm so sorry for all Southerners and Texas folks out there possibly having to cringe through my ignorance! Please, work with me! Remember, I'm from Sweden. We're all named "Inga", wear bikinis in winter and ride polar bears to work. We're the capital of Norway and apparently, we live in mountain tops in Switzerland and have a German-like accent. Or so I've heard and seen on American TV so it must be true, right? Gah.
> 
> Also, I imagine Hank's voice something like [Sam Elliots](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IlRbSMywTQg). <3 (Also, Sam Elliot is awesome!)  
> This chapter resolves something I needed to see resolved. And [Zoifiina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoifiina/profile) pointed out something **very important** that I had planned to leave out, but that I will deal with the next chapter. Namely, who tops? ;) So we're looking at 111 chapters instead of 110. But I guess you're alright with that if it answers questions like that, right?

* * *

# Hank Dixon

_Aah. Nothing like the smell of my own fear in the morning,_ Dean thinks sarcastically as he steps into the stable. His heart is rabbiting in his chest and he has a vague suspicion that his hands would be shaking if he’d lift them to look at them. He almost stops and turns on his heel. _Come on, you pussy. Man up!_

_I’ve got a right to be here,_ he reminds himself and strides inside. He’d seen people moving around here not long ago, but now he can’t see or hear anyone. There are far fewer horses inside today. Many are out getting exercise or grazing in the pastures. Dean walks along the rows peering into the stalls at the remaining horses. He can’t bring himself to pet any of them, not even the friendly looking ones. 

Like a moth, he's drawn to Marlin’s stall. (Indy. Whatever. To him, she’s Marlin.) He’s relieved to see her poke her head out of her stall and stretch her neck towards him. He keeps himself out of reach. “Hey, girl. Remember me? You gonna be nice if I say hello?” Carefully, he raises his (fucking trembling!) hand and lets her sniff it. “They tell me you're not a beginner's horse, and I'm supposed to pick another one. But you helped me before, and I don’t want to look like a total wimp in front of all my in-laws next week. How bout helpin’ me out again? But no ridin’ this time.”

He holds his breath and takes a step closer so he can properly reach her head. She’s as content to let him pet her this time as the last. “Hey. This ain’t that bad, right? You’ll be good if I come in? Okay. Here ‘e goes…” He goes closer and opens her stall door. Marlin immediately tries to push her way out. “Oh, no you don’t! Get back in there, asshole,” he scolds and pushes with one hand on her chest and one on the bridge of her nose. Reluctantly, the horse backs up to let him in, then stands still to let him close the door. Once the door is closed and he turns towards her she pushes her head against his chest like she did last time. “Scratches, huh? Yeah, I can do that.” He marvels at how afraid he can be at the same time as he trusts her. The way she’d stood watch over him, then helped him back after the accident makes him think she wouldn't purposefully hurt him. And he remembers how she’d lifted her hoof without putting much weight on it when she realised she was stepping on his hand. It doesn’t make her any less huge and dangerous, nor does it make him understand her more, but it’s a start. And he figures, if they’re gonna force him onto another horse he doesn’t feel the same trust for, he might as well spend these days trying to wean himself off his fear.

“Yeah, so I was thinking, I’m gonna brush you a bit, and put the saddle on. I’m gonna take it right off again. Just wanna try to do it right this time. Not gonna put anythin’ in yer mouth. You gonna work with me, right?” 

Marlin’s only response is to lower her head and lip at his pant pockets.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

* * *

Marlin’s one part saint and two parts asshole. She’s allowed Dean to touch her everywhere he dared, but she’s constantly in his face. Lipping, prodding, sniffing, begging for scratches or searching for treats. He’d love to bring her some, but he’s afraid she’d get worse if he did. Brushing her had gone well. He’d been scared shitless and on high alert while brushing her belly, but nothing scary had happened. He’d also found a spot on Marlin’s neck that when he massaged it she’d just… _stop_. Like literally. She’d lower her head and almost close her eyes, lower lip hanging slack and twitching in what he can only guess is pure bliss. And that’s good, right? He’d found something he could do for her to begin to make up for all his clumsiness.

Right now, though, he’s having problems. He’s having problems because Marlin is _a fucking bitch that should have been sent to the glue factory long ago!_

“Fuck sake, Marlin, _cut it out!_ ”

Marlin noddingly shakes the saddle blanket and drops it on the ground.

Dean puts down the saddle and snatches the blanket up. Last time it had gotten all wrinkly under the saddle and trying to get it straight was what made the saddle slide back too far, so this time Dean had gotten the brilliant idea to put on the blanket first, then the saddle. It would have worked too, if Marlin hadn’t been a little shit. Every time Dean put the blanket on, then turned his back to pick up the saddle, she reached her head back and pulled the blanket off, then flapped it around a bit before dropping it. She looked like she was having a blast.

He dusts the blanket off and puts it in place for the fifth time, then bends down to pick the saddle up. He straightens up just in time to see the blanket slide off and being shook. Again. He drops the saddle and bangs his head against Marlin’s warm belly, groaning in frustration. “ _Why, why, why,_ do you have to be such a giant ass?”

“Y’need any help?”

The deep, masculine voice startles Dean. He looks up with a jerk that makes Marlin dance around nervously, sidestepping towards him. Dean gives her a shove to keep her at bay before he can localise the voice. An old man with an impressive, bushy, white handlebar moustache and a cowboy hat stands leaned with his arms crossed over the opening between the bars of the stall. By the amused twinkle in his dark eyes, he’s seen Dean’s questionable success.

Dean feels his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “I’ve got a right to be here,” he utters defensively, then immediately wants to slap a hand over his face. The number one rule to convince people that you belong somewhere is to act like it, not to _say_ it. It’s a testament to how high strung he is, that all his people skills and brainpower are eradicated in favour of fighting his crippling fear. And that’s just dealing with Marlin, who is the least scary of the horses.

“I know y’do. That’s why I’m askin’. Y’need any help? Ya fixin’ to go on a ride?” The man has a Southern accent. Texas perhaps. His face is tanned and leathery with deep wrinkles, but his eyes are sharp and intelligent. He looks every bit a cowboy.

“No. I mean, I ain’t gonna r―dammit, Marlin! Will you _stop_.―ain’t gonna ride her. _Jeez_. What’s up with this lickin’ business? You a goat or sumthin’? You slobber on me one more time and I'll grab that tongue of yours, you got me? I'm tryna have a conversation here, for fuck sake,” Dean scolds and rubs his shirt sleeve on his cheek where Marlin just licked him. She's full of mischief, ears perked forward. Dean puts his hand on her neck and massages her ‘good spot’. She stills and lowers her head, lower lip and eyelids fluttering. “Sorry ‘bout that. Yeah, I guess I could use some help,” he tells the man.

The man reaches out to offer his hand to shake. “Hank Dixon. Horsemaster.”

Dean ducks under Marlin’s neck and goes to take Hank’s hand. “Dean. Dean Williams.”

“I know who y’ are, Dean. I was told to pick out an easy horse for ya. Just wasn’t expectin’ ya until Monday.”

“I know, I _know_. But then the whole fucking clan will come along then and frankly, horses scare the livin’ shit outta me. I have no idea what I’m doin’. It’s gonna be humiliating enough as it is, so I figured I'd go down here to try to de-pussify myself.” Marlin’s come to stand at his back and rubs her upper lip on his ear. He hooks an arm over her neck and pulls down her head to stroke her forehead, something she seems to like.

“So why y’ saddlin’ ‘er?”

“Cuz I can’t? Look, man. I tried riding her before, but I had an accident. It was caused by one part stupidity and one part ignorance. I hadn’t tightened the cinch enough, an’, yeah. T’wasn’t pretty. I figured I could come down here an’ tryna do right this time.” 

“Why’d’ya tryna ride ‘er in the first place?”

Dean fidgets. “Um… Nick. He said, um…” He’s not really keen on talking about it with a stranger.

Hank chuckles. “I shoulda figured. He an’ Gabe ain’t nuthin’ but trouble. But y’ain’t gon’ git her saddled up like that. Y’gotta put the blanket on with the saddle with this ’un.”

Relieved that Hank’s not going to push it, Dean relaxes a notch, trying to ignore how Marlin tugs at one of his pockets using her lips. “Okay… tried that last time but the blanket got all wrinkled underneath. By the way, she’s real hyper today. What didja do? Feed her eight balls?” Dean jokes to lighten his nerves.

Hanks moustache moves to a smile. “That’s just good o’ Indy for ya. Come on out, an’ I’ll show ya how it’s done on a pony more suited for buckwheats like yerself.”

Dean’s stomach drops. Hank is the horsemaster. He can’t exactly say no. Well, he _can_. But that’d be like mouthing off with the sergeant at boot camp. “Yeah, okay…” He picks the blanket and the saddle up and lets Hank hold the door open for him. Marlin tries to follow and Hank shoos her back in and closes the door. “I gotta say, you’re not what I expected,” Dean says conversationally as Hank walks with him to the tack room.

“Uh huh…?”

“Yeah, I mean, the Williams do all this fancy ass posh riding, dressage an’ polo an’ all. I figured you’d be, I dunno… not a cowboy?”

Hank clucks a little laugh. “Son, a horseman’s a horseman whatever he be wearin’. They needed extra coachin’, they brought in experts in that partic’lar field.” Hank’s brows, in contrast to his moustache and hair, are black. He’s wiry and more bowlegged than Dean is. “Now put that thang back an’ take that saddle an’ that bridle. If y’hook the bridle on yer arm it won’t tangle,” he instructs and demonstrates with a bridle belonging to another horse. Dean does as he’s told, picking the gear belonging to ‘Donny’, then follows Hank to a new stall. Inside there’s an all black horse that is shorter and stockier than Marlin. Donatello, a 28-year-old gelding with his mane cropped short, doesn’t pay any particular mind to them stopping outside his stall. Hank shows him how to put the saddle down, and the hook outside beside the stall door where he can hang the bridle so it won’t tangle. Dean hadn’t paid any attention to that before, but all stalls got them―most with a halter already hanging there, Donny’s included. 

Hank takes a bigger brush and a small brush with him as they enter while explaining how it’s important to always announce yourself to a horse, because they might kick if they’re startled. He goes on to explain how to use the brushes and (the small brush is for the face) why things are done like they’re done. He shows Dean how hard to brush and in what direction after Dean’s let Donny sniff him. Donny just stands there and lets them do whatever they want to him, unlike Marlin who’s about as still as a monkey on speed. Occasionally he swats his tail at a couple of flies bothering him, or stomps his foot for the same reason. Every time Donny swats at a fly, Dean flinches. He tries not to show how fucking terrified he is, but to no avail. He _knows_ his fear is borderline irrational. (Not completely irrational. Horses obviously _can_ be dangerous.) He knows it, but he can’t stop the feeling and it’s fucking humiliating. His heart is working overtime and as soon as he stepped inside with Donny, he started to sweat.

He’s distracting himself by talking and asking questions. Both about what they’re doing and about Hank himself. Hank’s an old man. He was hired as a part-time assistant horse trainer here back when Marlon’s parents were still alive. He took the job because it included free stabling and care for his horse. He used to compete in reining (the western version of dressage) when he was younger, something that the Williams had always endorsed. He isn’t planning on ever retiring, but no longer does the heavy lifting jobs. Not surprisingly, he grew up on a farm in Texas. Dean has problems keeping up with what he’s saying, not because of his accent, but because this fucking crippling fear creeps like a darkness at the edges of his consciousness.

He can’t remember feeling this way ever before. Sure, he’s been scared shitless loads of times. But not this way. Not in the way that makes him on the verge of freezing up and makes his thoughts all scrambled. He wonders if this is the way Nick feels about tight spaces and Mike about snakes. Hank’s being a pretty good sport about it. He seems to be a guy with endless patience. His eyes hold a faintly amused twinkle, and they’re sharp. It feels like Dean’s being weighed and measured with every move he makes and every word he speaks. He can’t tell exactly what Hank thinks of him, but he’s acting friendly enough.

He shows Dean how to use a hoof pick and how to get the horse to raise his hoof. Donny is slow to react to any command, but doesn’t put up a fight in any way. When Dean does it everything’s fine (Hah!) while doing the front hooves, but when he works on picking one of the back hooves, Donny suddenly starts pulling at his hoof. Dean gets a mental image of Donny kicking out, hitting him square in the face. Before he knows what he’s doing he’s dropped the hoof and plastered himself against the wall, breathing roughly.

“Calm down, boy. It ain’t dang’rous. Y’weren’t givin’ him ‘nuff support. He’s just tryin’ find his balance. Up’n at it again. Anyone can do this.”

“Anyone can clear mines and disarm bombs too, yet I don’t see you line up to try it,” Dean snipes. He instantly regrets his outburst. “I’m sorry. Sorry. Just, just, gimme a moment, okay?”

“Take your time, son. Donny ain’t goin’ nowhere. So. Soldier, huh?”

“Yeah. Usta be. I’m a sapper.”

“Ain’t familiar with what that is.”

“I’m an engineer. Can fix about anythin’. My job was to build things, fix things, and blow shit up. Damn good at it too. Loved my job. Got kicked out after my leg got busted in an airstrike. I was told I’d never walk again.” His shirt is soaked with sweat. He can feel a droplet track its way down to hang from the tip of his nose.

Hank chuckles. “Yer sure doin’ a good impr’ssion o’ walkin’.”

“Heh. Yeah, well. Fuck them.”

“That’s the spirit, son.”

Hank calling him ‘boy’ and ‘son’ is perfectly okay. It’s a teacher talking to a student without any undercurrent of something else, like it had been with Marlon. Plus, a man who’s in his late seventies or early eighties, sure as hell had earned his right to call him ‘boy’. Dean takes a couple of deep breaths and goes back at it, managing to give Donny better support this time.

* * *

Donny doesn’t blow himself up like Marlin does, and saddling him is a lot easier. The bridle too, has fewer straps and only one jointed bit that Donny takes without any fuss. Hank has Dean putting the tack on and taking it off several times, making sure he’s got it right. He’s just removed the saddle again when there’s a loud crash, a high whinny, and someone cursing somewhere on the other side of the stable. 

“‘Scuse me. Ah’mo go see ‘bout that,” Hank says.

“Yeah, sure.”

Hank leaves, and Dean’s left alone with Donny. Donny makes Dean 100 times more nervous than Marlin ever could. Maybe it’s because Donny doesn’t seem to give a shit about anything Dean does - he just stoically puts up with it. He puts up with the bit clanking against his teeth or his ears getting bent and stuck when Dean fumbles with the bridle. He puts up with the awkward fumblings and pokings and proddings and all of Dean’s many, _many_ mistakes. Rock solid, right? Doesn’t give a shit. Patient as fuck. 

But maybe that’s it. The horse _doesn’t give a fuck_. 

Marlin all but climbing up in his lap, wanting to explore everything he does, having opinions on his mistakes, guarding him when he was down (he’ll never get over that fact)... she cares. She cares when he’s acting a fool and when he’s hurt and what he’s doing. She might be full of mischief or have a bunch of issues of her own, but she gives a fuck. He can’t imagine Donny waiting around or trying not to step on him if he’s broken and bleeding at his feet.

So when Hank takes too long in coming back, instead of repeating his lesson, Dean takes the saddle and the bridle, pushes at Donny’s hindquarter to get him to step out of the way (which he does, albeit slower than Marlin would) and leaves the stall. The relief is instant as soon as the door is closed. All he wants to do is to get the fuck out of here. But if he leaves now, he’ll never be able to force himself back in. Not until Monday when all the siblings will see what a fucking wimp he is.

Instead, he goes to leave the tack in the tack room, then slinks into Marlin’s stall. Marlin turns around to greet him as soon as he comes inside, ears perked forward as usual. He pets her head, feeling soothed by how she lips at his fingers when he puts a hand by her mouth while rubbing her forehead with the other. “Fuck, Marlin, the hell am I supposed to _do_? I can’t fucking shake it. Any tiny flick of the tail an’ my mind plays me worst case scenarios. I don’t get it. Dad did way worse to me than Max did, yet I freak out at the thought of being bitten by any of y’all. I’m such a fucking baby.” He closes his eyes and sinks down to the ground, leaned against the wall. Marlin lowers her head into the gap between his bent legs and his chest and just breathes. He leans his forehead against hers and combs through her mane with one hand, stroking her warm neck with his other.

His first impression had been that she was nearly black, and she is. But she’s got faint dappling on her belly and hindquarters, and she’s much lighter brown under her elbows, on the inside of her thighs, under her eyes and around her nose. Her broken blaze is pink on the tip of her nose. Her mane and tail are long and black. Donny with his shiny jet black coat and short-cropped mane seems dull in comparison. “You’re real pretty for a horse,” he concedes. “Like me. I’m pretty for a boy. Guess we got that in common, huh?”

* * *

Hank finds him in that position five or maybe ten minutes later.

“There y’are. I thought y’were all hat, no cattle. Guess I was wrong.”

“Ain’t no quitter, Sir.” 

“Wanna join me outside for a coke?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“What kind ye havin’?”

“You got Mountain Dew?”

“I’ll go get us some.”

When Hank comes back Dean gets up. Marlin crowds him by the door as usual, aiming to plow her way out. “No, Marlin. _Back the fuck up_ ,” he says while turning around and shooing at her with his hands. Marlin throws her head up and dances backwards, ear flicking backwards (but not slicking them to her head). Mission accomplished, he opens the door and steps outside. When he closes the door and looks back he swears the fucking horse looks forlorn.

_Guess I’m not the only one missin’ papa’s attention, huh?_

_Projecting. I’m just projecting,_ he tells himself.

He goes outside with Hank and Dean aims straight for the ramp. Out of curiosity he crouches by the side of it and inspects the place he hit his head.

“What’tchya doin’ there, boy?”

“Just lookin’ if there’s any blood left. There ain’t, of course. We’ve had rain several times since. But I dunno. Morbid curiosity.”

“Care to tell me what happen’d?”

“Um, yeah, okay. I led Marlin outside…” Dean jumps up to sit on the ramp and takes the soda Hank offers while he recounts for what happened. It feels like Hank should know what he’s dealing with if he’s going to help.

Hank sits down on the ramp beside him. “Is that when ya got spooked?”

“Nah, man. I ain’t sure where this fucking fear comes from. I don’t know much about animals. Didn’t have any growing up. Predators I get. I’ve seen documentaries. Wolves, lions, dogs, you name it. Plus, you can’t enter a war zone and _not_ see the predators in ourselves, you feel me? When I look at our dog, Mavis, I see so much of my own body language, and when I respond to that he reacts in the way I anticipate, right? We speak the same language. A really crude, guttural accent perhaps, but the words are the same. But with the horses, it’s like they’re speaking Chinese, and when I try to respond all they get is ‘Yo mama’-insults no matter what I’m tryin’ to say.”

Hank’s shoulders shake in silent mirth. 

Dean takes his cigarettes out of his pocket, he offers Hank one (he declines with a gesture) before lighting one up for himself, taking a deep, calming inhale of smoke. “I don’t know. I get that I’m being irrational. I get it. I do, man. I dunno why I react this way. I’m afraid of flying, but that didn’t stop me from parachuting. I’ve disarmed bombs with seconds to spare, faced off with enemy soldiers, been shot at, bombed, ambushed, all kinds of shit, yet none of that has had me by the balls like this... Lucky thing too, since I’ve always had people depending on me to keep my shit together,” he adds with a small chuckle.

“Uh huh. So why are ya doin’ this? Just lookin’ to get through yer fear, or ya aimin’ to ride un’ day?”

“I dunno. Both? I guess? I ain’t a quitter. Fucking hate failing. And Nick fucking _loves_ this. Whether I like it or not, I want to be able to say ‘alright’ when he asks me to go out for a ride with him. Once in awhile, you know? I don’t wanna be a pussy.”

“What kind of ridin’ you lookin’ to do?”

“Uh… horseback riding? I just want to get up on one of those and not freak out.”

“Then we’ll git ya there. Yer leg, how bad is it? Ya got ‘ny other hand’caps?”

Dean side-eyes Hank bemusedly as he takes another drag on his cigarette. For a beat, he thinks it’s an odd question. But then again, Hank’s the boss around here. That’s something he needs to know to make risk assessments. “Just my leg. I can’t run or strain it too much. If I do, it’ll hurt like a fucking bitch. A short sprint could have me limping for days. I can do hard labour, but I’ve gotta be careful or I have to bomb myself with painkillers. I try to avoid that.”

“Then I think we’d better use west’rn tack for ya. An’ once we git ya up in the saddle, I’ll teach ya western ridin’ first an’ for’most. But that’s for later.”

“Whatever you say. So what makes Donny a beginner’s horse, and not Marlin?”

“Pers’nality. ‘T’s all ‘bout pers’nality. Donny’s calm an’ reliable. We take him along when we travel with nervous horses, to help keep ‘em calm. He loves bein’ groomed an’ he does his best when ridden. Ain’t the type to git up to no good. He’s a bit lazy, but he won’t run off with ya. Ain’t much that can ruffle ‘im.”

“And Marlin?”

Hank side-eyes him with that amused twinkle. “She’s a good o’gal. I’ll give ya that. But she’s a whole ‘nuther thang. A real firecracker, that un’.”

“Huh.” Donny sounds kinda boring. But he keeps that thought to himself. Boring should be good, right? Boring is safe.

“Care to help me take Donny and Indy to the pasture?” Hank asks with a sly glint in his eyes. He’s got an expression like he knows something Dean doesn’t most of the time. But then again, he _does_. Dean trusts Hank to know what he’s doing because Dean has no idea.

“I can do that.”

* * *

That’s how he finds himself leading Marlin towards the pasture while Hank walks beside him, leading Donny. Putting the halter on Marlin was no problem. Apparently, it’s taking a bit she protests, not having something on her head. Hank instructed him to never wrap the lead rope around his hand to avoid getting caught and pulled along if the horse spooked. Dean can see the sense in that. Marlin walks along without any fuss just like Donny, _until_ she sees the gate to the pasture. Then all the sudden she raises her head high, ears perked forward, nostrils flared, and tries to speed up. “No. Calm down, you coon. We’ll get there.” Dean pulls on the lead and pushes at her chest. Instead she starts prancing, jogging in place with tail held high and high knee movements. Dean has to walk with the lead short and lean into her to keep her from speeding up, like he’s stepping on the breaks. Hank is keeping an eye on him but Dean’s got his hands too full of keeping Marlin from stepping on the gas to pay him any mind. “You try to drag me there I’ll turn us both straight back around, you hear?”

When she starts pulling again he stops and forcefully drags her around the other way. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to do that, but he’s got a ball of ice in his belly at the thought of her gaining traction and running off with him, and Hank isn’t saying anything. She throws her head up and down, huffs and snorts, but lowers her head a bit and follows him back a couple of steps. “You gonna behave now?” Dean asks and turns them around again. Hank has stopped to watch while Donny’s grazing the grass beside the path. As soon as they’re facing the pasture again, Marlin lifts her head and starts to speed ahead. “Fuck sake, Marlin. I said no. I can do this all day, you know?” Once again he pulls her back around and tugs her back towards the stable until she lowers her head and quits prancing. It takes a bit longer than last time, but when he turns her back towards the pasture she doesn’t start pulling. She raises her head again, flaring her nostrils, but he can live with that. 

Hank starts walking again without commenting, pulling Donny from his grazing. When he’s by the gate he tells Dean to stop. Dean holds Marlin back and watches how Hank does it when he opens the gate, leads Donny inside, and closes the gate. He leads Donny a couple of steps inside before he unclasps the lead. Donny perks up and trots a couple of steps towards the only mud puddle visible. There he goes down on his front knees, lies down, and _rolls_. Dean’s struggling with keeping Marlin still, but he still manages to chuckle in amusement at seeing Donny ruin his well-groomed appearance. “Alright, bring yer gal in now,” Hank calls.

Dean leads the prancing horse to the gate. It’s not all that easy holding her with one hand while opening the gate at the same time, but he manages without getting bowled over. He closes the gate and leads her to the place Hank is standing. Marlin is seemingly trying to look everywhere at once, ears clipping this way and that. “Can I let her loose?”

“Uh huh.”

Dean unclasps the lead and Marlin takes off like shot through a cannon. She gallops in a wide circle around the pasture, disappearing behind a copse of trees. “Holy shit.”

“Yup. That gal can run faster than a scalded haint,” Hank agrees, his bushy moustache smiling.

Marlin comes back into view, bucking several times. “Why is she doing that?”

“Just happy to be alive, t’s all.”

When Marlin comes racing back straight towards them, Dean fears he’s going to piss himself in fright. Heart racing, he reminds himself of how she tried not to step on him when he was down, and holds his ground, but tenses up, ready to dive to the side if she doesn’t turn. Sure enough, when she’s almost by them she nearly sits on her haunches to stop, then trots up to him, huffing and snorting, eyes bright, and nudges him in the belly as if to say ‘Come on, then! Join me!’ The bubbling laughter coming from himself surprises Dean. “I’d love to, girl, but I can’t. My leg won’t hold for it,” he tells the horse and pats her neck. “Now, go on. _Git!_ ” He shoves loosely at her neck and she sets off again, makes another half lap before slowing down and lowering her head to graze. Dean’s grinning like a fool.

“Ev’ry horse’s diff’rent. Ain’t recommendin’ ya to stand yer ground like that with all of ‘em. But she won’t tump ya on purpose and neither will Donny.”

“Got it. No playing chicken race with Hopper.”

“That’s right.”

* * *

“Now y’need to muck out their stalls.”

“Don’t we have stable hands to― Oh. Got it. Wax on, wax off, wax on, wax off, right?”

Hank gives him a blank stare.

“Mr. Myagi? Karate Kid? ...Forget about it. Muck out stalls. I’m on it. Where’s the equipment?”

He gets shown where stuff is, what to do, where to dump the crap, where the extra bedding is. After that Hank goes through different types of tack with him, then puts him on cleaning gear. After that he’s introduced to some of the other grooms and gets to help feeding a couple of horses still in the stable and portion out food to the empty stalls too. After that, he helps toting hay. Basically, Hank has him working his ass off. It feels really fucking good. Hard work he understands and it lessens his nerves.

“Say, Dean, are ya busy this week between 6 AM and noonish?” Hank asks when Dean notices it’s already 2 PM and he has to leave because he’s meeting Nick at the plant nursery to help getting it in order.

“No. Not that I know of.”

“Good. I have a man that’s home sick. Ya think ya can take care of Donny an’ Indy to lessen the workload for us?”

“Uh… I guess? What do I need to do?”

Hank hands him a list with strict instructions and tells him that he can ask anyone for help if he needs it. There’s nothing on the list he hasn’t gotten to try already. He thinks Hank’s crazy for trusting _him_ to care for two horses. But working in the stable is hard work, and if they’re one man down, any help would be welcome. He’d rather be of use than a burden, so, maybe foolishly, he says yes.

* * *

By the third day, he’s no longer terrified. Far from it. The other horses still make him nervous, but Donny and Marlin he can deal with. Muck out and put feed and hay in their stalls, get them from the pasture, scold Donny for rolling in mud, brush them down, pick their hooves, look them over for possible injuries, find more mud in impossible places, scold and brush Donny some more, go back to Marlin to have a chat with a more reasonable horse, ask the other staff if they need any help, find Hank and barrage him with questions, then end the day by walking around amongst the other stalls and challenge himself to say hello to other horses.

He’s in Marlin’s stall, brushing her down, talking away, when suddenly, “ _Dean?_ ”

Dean’s head snaps up to stare over Marlin’s back right at Nick, who’s staring at him from outside the stall with the same surprised expression. “Nick,” he states dumbly.

Nick’s lips twitch as if he’s fighting a smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh…” Dean looks at Marlin, then at the brush in his hand, then at Nick. “I, uh… Hank…” He clears his throat. “I didn’t want to look like a complete pussy in front of all of y’all, so I figured I’d come down here an’ tryna to get rid of my fears. So Hank put me up to care for Donny an’ Marlin here in the mornings.”

Nick’s eyes twinkle and his lips widen to a fascinated smile. He crosses his arms and leans over the opening between the bars. “Let me get this straight. You went down here to get rid of your fears, so you wouldn’t look like a chicken, when you came down here with us so we could help you get rid of your fears?”

“Basically, yeah.”

Nick’s smile widens to a beaming grin. “And you went to Hank for help?”

“Well… no. I went to Marlin. Since I failed at saddling her up the first time, I figured I’d try again ‘til I got it right. But I put the blanket on first and she kept pulling it off before I could get the saddle on.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. She can be a real asshole when she wants to.”

Nick laughs and then looks at him with an utterly adoring, joyful expression. “I didn’t know she did that.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. I’ve never ridden her. She was born after I left for the army. Most horses we’ve got are pretty old, with a few exceptions. We haven’t bought new ones for a long time. I’ve seen her under saddle though. Dad rode her when I was spying on him.”

It makes something warm glow in Dean’s chest, that he knows something about one of the horses that Nick doesn’t. “Huh. Well, I was struggling to get the saddle on her back before she pulled the blanket off, and Hank had been watching me. He asked me if I needed help. I ain’t gonna decline help from the horsemaster.”

“Makes sense. You want to go for a ride?”

“Whoa. I dunno if I’m ready for that.”

“Okay. How about we go to the indoor riding area? We saddle up Donny and I’ll lead you around so you get a feel for it and find your balance.”

Nick looks so damned enthusiastic about it, that Dean can’t say no. It’s physically impossible. “Yeah, okay.”

* * *

Dean’s nervous enough to want to throw up. But Donny stands patiently while Nick helps him up in the saddle. And after the first panic-stricken minutes, he starts to relax. He’s got a safety vest and a helmet, Nick’s leading Donny and smiles like the sun itself and chatter away, explaining things about how to control the horse with your weight, and the principles of neck reining which is what’s used in western riding and the style Hank decided they were going to teach him first and foremost. Hank comes into the riding area and watches Nick give his lesson. Dean gets to try trotting while poor Nick has to run beside Donny. It’s bumpy as hell and fucking kills his ass. Nick doesn’t seem to mind the running, or not getting to ride himself. He keeps beaming up at Dean no matter how inexpertly Dean bumps around in the saddle. At the end of the lesson, Dean feels confident enough to try some basic stuff without Nick leading him. Simple stuff like getting the horse to walk, stop, turn, and back up. Donny is a bit ‘heavy’ to move. Nick explains it like having your mouse cursor set on a low sensitivity. Hank chips in that Marlin’s the opposite. A command that will get Donny to walk might set her off in a fast trot, or make her turn 180 degrees instead of one step. It sounds awesome that so little is required, but Dean can see how that could be hell if she follows commands he has no idea he’s given.

The lesson doesn’t go flawlessly. By the end when he’s riding on his own he tries to make Donny walk faster he starts trotting instead. Dean’s a bit unbalanced and squeezes with his legs to keep from falling, and suddenly Donny goes a whole lot faster, but now in a rocking motion that’s so much easier to follow. Dean doesn’t even get scared. Startled? Yes. But he doesn’t freak out when Donny’s suddenly cantering.

“Good, now follow his motions with yer hands to so yer not jerkin’ ‘im in the mouth,” Hank calls out.

Dean does. Other directions are given to him. “Don’t squeeze with your legs, relax with it, lean back a bit, look in the direction you’re going, follow his motions.” This time it’s Nick giving them. Dean does what he’s told. When he leans back Donny lowers his head, slows his pace without stopping the canter and _bam_ \- Dean finds it. He finds the rhythm. He loses it a bit when they turn at the corner, but finds it again fairly quickly. It’s thrilling. It’s _awesome_. “Come towards me, then stop.” Dean turns Donny towards Nick. When they close in he rolls his hips forward, braces against the stirrups, makes himself heavy and says “Woah,” before freezing his grip on the reins. Donny comes to a dead halt. The bubbly feeling in Dean’s belly can best be described as pure fucking elation.

It must show on his face because Nick’s grinning like a proud parent when he walks up to them. “I was going to ask if you’re alright, but you look like it would be a redundant question.”

“I feel fucking fantastic. What did I do to make him run like that?”

Nick shows him what he did, how one foot was in front of the girth and the other behind it when he squeezed. There’s something about how he held the reins and used his weight and pelvic bone too. Everything doesn’t stick for now. It doesn’t have to. It was his first time. He didn’t fall off and he didn’t panic. He did good.

He’s high on his success afterwards. His legs feel like jelly, and once he gets off after a couple of laps at a walk it feels like he’s walking on a boat at sea. Donny’s pretty awesome after all. Even if he rolls in mud to ensure he’ll get extra time being groomed. (Dean’s fucking sure that’s the reason.)

“So how long do you think it’ll take before I can ride Marlin?”

“You’re still calling her that?”

“Ey. I call her everything from asshole to sweetheart, depending on how she’s acting.”

“Fair enough. I don’t know, darling, but if that’s your goal, we’ll get you there.”

It’s all Dean can ask. It’s the goal he sets himself. 

After taking off the tack and giving Donny a rub down, he goes to find Nick. He hears Nick and Hank talking before he rounds a corner and stops to listen.

“...safe, letting him care for Indy?”

“Folks an’ horses are ind’viduals, Luci. Yer boy was all but pissin’ himself handlin’ Donny. I had’tuh leave him for a moment an’ when I got back, he was gone. Thought he’d given up, but found him sittin’ in a corn’r of Indy’s stall with her head in his lap. He claimed he couldn’t understand ponies talkin’ to him, but those two have a darn good report. He shows a whole ‘nuther conf’dence handlin’ her. Had a talk with yer boy, and he said he had no problem facin’ his fears when he had folks dependin’ on him. I reckon’d makin’ the horses depend on him would be the kicker.”

“And it worked,” Nick states.

“Darn tootin’, it did. ‘Nytime he lost his conf’dence with Donny he went to his gal for comfort. It ain’t the kosh’r way, but if it git ‘r done? Tell yuh what.”

So that’s why Hank had asked him for help? Dean isn’t perturbed by being tricked like that. He’s still floating on his success. When he rounds the corner Nick turns to look at him. Nick looks as stupidly in love as he did when Dean said yes to his proposal.

_Worth it. Totally worth it._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter made the Grammarly app screech in anguish. XD For those who are thinking of installing Grammarly in your browser, let me tell you that it's not great for creative writing. Yes, it catches some of my faults that both I and my amazing Betas miss, but it's very opinionated about style and doesn't know enough words when it comes to slang and niches. Also, it's very opinionated about commas. So if you install it, remember to trust your own judgement on your own style. You might want a comma in a certain place, or NOT want it, to put emphasis on a certain thing or show that a person speaks a mile a minute without breathing an so forth.


	109. Voyeur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I should have waited a day to post this but I simply couldn't wait, okay?

* * *

# Voyeur

“No, no, no. I want _this_ colour. I asked for fern and you’re giving me fucking _mint_. See? See the difference? I don’t care if you have to go to the other side of New York to get it. _I’m_ the one who’s gonna live in it. The furniture arrives at noon tomorrow. Either you hop in your car and get me this colour and get paid for the overtime it’ll take to get it done in time, or you’ll have a lawsuit for breach of contrast on your ass. Your choice.” Dean scowls at the contractor’s expression. “You know what? You can call me a bitch or an asshole to my face if you wish, but _you_ took the job, and _you_ promised me you could get it done in time. If you can’t do it, tell me now, so I can kick you out and get to work doing your job myself.”

“I can do it, Sir.”

“Good. Then get to it,” Dean says, gives the contractor a pat on the upper arm and walks towards another guy standing by the stairs. “Hey, Orson! How’s the upstairs coming?”

“All done, Sir.”

“Perfect. And the electronics?”

“All in place, Sir.”

“Perfect. Keep up the good work.” He moves to look into the kitchen and stops to stare for a moment. He can hardly believe that this is his. It’s so perfect he can’t wait to get to cook in it. Benny would have loved a kitchen like this. Light and airy, with lots of counter space, modern equipment, huge fridge and freezer, and a patio right outside. On the other side of the kitchen a dining table (one of those you could pull out to make it bigger) would be placed tomorrow, and with how the cooking area was designed―square, with counters on all four sides, and the stove facing the dining area―you could cook and be part of the conversation, or all three of them could cook together without getting in each other's way. 

He turns around and heads for Nick and Mike, who both stand with their arms crossed and their lips twitching in held back mirth, watching him. “Yeah, yeah. I'm a brat, I know. Come on, let's go. I wanna stop by that store where they have those soft pillows, before we go to Sam’s for dinner.”

The brothers laugh at him as they follow him out towards the car. “I can’t get over that you turned into a contractor nightmare as soon they started building,” Mike sniggers. 

They can laugh all they want. He’s nesting, alright? “Oy. I demand nothing less from them than I do from myself. Most of the shit they've done I can do. I understand when they're trying to bullshit me and I ain’t having it. We work twelve to eighteen hours a day, for crying out loud. I have the right to demand perfection. It’s gonna be our safe space, the place we come to unwind. Fuck knows we need it.”

“Most people don't consider the golfing and dining you've been doing, work,” Mike points out and gets into the car behind the wheel. 

“Fuck them. It ain't as easy as it seems. Honestly, I'd rather give those people I've had to brown nose, _actual_ rimjobs. It woulda been faster and leave a less bitter taste in my mouth. I’m saving jobs and I’m not even employed,” Dean says and piles into the back with Nick. 

“Yes, you are.”

“What? Since when?”

Mike grins at him through the rearview mirror and Nick covers his mouth to hide a smirk. “Remember that stack of papers I had you sign? When you jokingly asked if I was fucking you over?” Mike asks and backs out of the driveway.

“Yeah?”

“One of those papers was your employment agreement. And the VISA card I left on your desk in your office is connected to your private account where you get your salary.”

The VISA card Dean had put in his wallet and promptly forgot about since he already had another. “You mean I coulda bought all that stuff last weekend with _my own_ money, instead of havin’ you give it to me?”

“Now, now, darling. Don’t go spoiling Mikey’s fun for him,” Nick chides amusedly.

“Yeah, alright. But still. So what’s my position?”

“Chief consultant.”

“That’s vague.”

“It’s supposed to be. Besides, ‘intern’ wouldn’t exactly cover the power you have, nor explain why we gave you a corner office. And as our chief consultant the CEOs we have you buttering up, have a reason to deal with you. They know you have influence enough not to be a waste of time.”

“Ugh. Lucky thing too. Spending three days in Wooster, Arkansas trying to convince a douchewad that queer people are humans too, ain’t on top of my list of fun. If he had quit his dealings with us half of the town would be out of jobs. I swear it, sometimes I feel like I’m some high-end corporate escort with a no touching rule. It’s worth it, since I can see results, but still. It’s a bit like being some kind of whore for hire.”

“Amen to that,” Mike agrees. Mike too, has to use his charm a great deal to get his will.

“Speaking of whoring…” Nick puts forth. “Cas requested our help. There’s a guy in Belgium, who sits on information that may be vital for us. The problem is, this guy has few weaknesses. Cas has exhausted his ordinary venues and can’t get him to talk. There’s an indication that he’s the type to pillow talk though, if a guy can get him enamoured enough. But he has a type. Balt might have been able to pull it off, but he’s still tied up with Toni. I can’t do it because I’m not good looking or charming enough even when I try. Gabe can’t do it, because he’s too much… _Gabe_. Mikey could probably pull it off, but he’s not into guys, and even if he was, I get the feeling you’d butcher him if he fucked someone else. That leaves you…”

“Is this about the hush in Garland Corp?” Mike asks, meeting Nick’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Mmhm.”

“Wait. Are you asking me to fuck someone? You. You’re asking me to actually fuck someone else?” Dean asks, puzzled. Nick isn’t one for sharing willy-nilly.

“Mmmhm,” Nick hums in confirmation. He takes up his cellphone and shows Dean a photo. “Here he is. Sander Van Den Broeck. 29 years old. Gayer than a maypole, and the only one who knows _all_ about what the fuck is going on in Garland corp right now.”

Dean takes the phone and stares at the picture. The guy is _sizzling_. Dark blond, perfect smile, dimples, athletic body… “Fuck me, this guy’s hot.”

“Mhm,” Nick agrees and nods encouragingly, which is just plain _wrong_. This is the kind of guy that if Dean comes across as too flirty towards, Nick will square up against to make it very fucking clear, that Dean’s not up for grabs. Either that, or he’ll be clingy and possessive as fuck.

“And you want me to fuck him?” Dean asks skeptically.

“I want you to find up what Garland Corp is hiding. If you can do that without seducing him, that’s perfectly fine too.”

“Uh huh.” Dean turns his head towards Mike. “Mike, you okay with this?”

“I can’t say I like it very much, but I don’t particularly mind. The possible gains are too great. Plus, I have full confidence in your loyalty, Dean.”

Mike is really as possessive as Nick, but in another way. He puts less stock in physicality. Like that incident with the BJ in Paris. If Dean should say he popped down to the mailroom to let Bernie give him a blowjob to unwind when Mike wasn’t at hand (he hasn’t), Mike wouldn’t bat an eyelash. (Nick would probably slash Bernie’s throat if Dean did that without prior clearance, but whatever.) But should Dean tell Mike that Marlon’s merest touch set his heart into overdrive, he’d be jealous as fuck. Mike has a clear line in his head between physicality and emotions. Nick too, to a very limited extent. That rarely extended to Dean though, so something’s up.

“What’s the catch?” Dean asks Nick.

Nick gives him a pleasant smile. “Oh, no catch. None at all.”

“Don’t play games with me, jackass. You just gave me a get-out-of-jail-for-free card for sleeping with a guy that is seriously hot, and you’re doing so with a fucking smile on your face. There’s a catch.”

Nick sniggers. “Fair enough. Dicky asked me to do another job for him. Six-month deadline. Guess who?” 

“Sander Van Den Broeck.”

“Bingo,” Nick grins and taps his temple with a finger. “Not only will you be able to provide me with the most detailed intel this far, but I’m going to enjoy it so. Much. More.”

Mike whistles on an inhale, looking excited. Those two have the weirdest fucking turn-ons.

Dean almost says no to all of it out of sheer spite. He doesn’t want to fuck a guy just so Nick can get more joy out of fucking killing him. He’s in charge of deciding which jobs Nick may take on, and Nick will obey. Dean’s his handler and it’s worked out well so far.

However, Cas occasionally asks for their help when it comes to finding stuff out or spreading false information. He had never asked them to do anything that might require this level of seduction. Cas may be pragmatic, but he’s also very respectful of their feelings, so if he’s asking them to do this it must really be important to get that information. And then Roman... 

Roman, Cas, and Gabe are the only ones in the know when it comes to Nick’s unofficial profession. Turns out, Gabe and Dick could generate enough jobs to make it a full-time endeavour, should Dean not demand a minimum level of righteousness, however questionable. Gabe knew people who knew people who needed to have people dead, and Roman, well. Roman loved the power of being able to point a finger at someone and have them die. The first two jobs he wanted Nick to do, Dean had firmly said no to. He’d explained why to Dick - they’re _not_ killing innocent people just because Dick doesn’t like them. Since then, Dick’s given them jobs Dean has said yes too after doing a little research. Roman had an uncanny ability to pick people who had done things that will piss Dean off. Which means there must be something up with this Sander guy.

“Alright. I’ll do it. But it doesn’t guarantee I’ll give you the all clear. If Sander turns out to be innocent…” ‘Innocent’ is such a vague term, spoken within these conditions. Sometimes he marvels―in a horrified way―at how far he’s gone from the young man who wanted to serve in the army to protect people and save lives. These days his morals are closer to black than grey. But he doesn’t want to add another Isobel to his ghosts. _Never again_.

Nick hums in satisfaction and pats his leg. Up front Mike too has an excited expression. As dark as Dean finds his own morals, his shade of gray is light in comparison to both the brothers.

Nick’s shady occupation is the reason Dean’s working days are so long. Being his handler means he must do research. They also work together at times―Dean keeping watch, driving the getaway car, helping to clean up. Stuff like that. On top of that Dean works at the office with Mike, sitting in at meetings, reading up on situations, learning the ropes, and most importantly, sucking up to people they need to cooperate with and win over. The last part is easy and exhausting all at once. Mike or Cas give him an objective and he solves the problem. It requires people skills and the ability to lie. He’s good at it and he feels like he’s contributing, even if he isn’t much help running the business. Occasionally, he nips down to Luci’s Eden to help out there too, to make sure Nick doesn’t kill his employees or vice versa. Nick doesn’t like a single one of them. The only thing he likes about them is that they keep him from having to deal with customers too much and that he can have them do the most boring and tedious work. Mavis is with Nick all day during work, trotting around the nursery as if he owns it, and greets customers with enthusiasm Nick fails to show. The shop is doing fairly well, especially for a new business, and Hester’s greenhouse café is _blooming_. Both literally and figuratively. It got a five-star review in N.Y Times, and has been recommended in Buzzfeed as a must-go place to visit due to the gorgeous environment Nick’s created.

The Williams corporations have been struggling for awhile. The change of direction put their stocks in freefall, but they’ve finally started to turn things around. It’s been a couple of crazy months that put a lot of strain on everyone.

On top of that Dean’s unsuccessfully and stealthily tried to find Marlon. He can’t let it go. He should. He fucking should. But it’s an obsession. He can’t let it go, try as he might. There are moments when he doubts himself. When he thinks Marlon’s dead after all. But no. Hand’s don’t go from smooth to work-roughened just because you die. He tells himself he just needs to find Marlon to get proof. To have it confirmed that his life was saved. That’s all. Once he knows for sure, he’ll let it go. He _will_.

“I heard Hank let you ride Indy this morning,” Mike says, jarring Dean out of his thoughts.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, he did. He let me walk her off after he’d exercised her. Gave me a lesson in using my seat and weight. I wasn’t allowed to use the reins _at all_ for most of it. He had me holding my arms out and pretend I was an airplane, making her turn by tipping my wings. That’d never work on Donny, I’ll tell ya,” Dean eagerly divulges. His heart had been hammering in his chest just as it had the first time he rode Donny, but this time it had been from excitement. “Then at the very end, he had me only use the reins, in one hand like we trained. Holy shit, it was like steering a fucking helicopter. She’s awesome.”

Mike smiles warmly at him through the rearview mirror. “To be honest, Dean, I don’t like riding her at all.”

“You’ve ridden her?” Dean asks, surprised by this new information.

“I have. Dad insisted I’d do it sometimes to keep my skills honed.”

“She’s a very honest horse,” Nick chips in. He’s ridden her three times now, wanting to know what he was going to ‘put his greatest treasure on’.

Mike laughs. “If you say that, you’ve only ridden her indoors,” he states with a grin.

“Honest… What does that mean, correlating to horses?” Dean wants to know.

“She’ll do what you ask of her. Won’t pretend she doesn’t understand, and give clear indications of her own limitations,” Nick explains.

“And what’s the difference when riding her outdoors?” Dean asks Mike.

“Outdoors she’ll suddenly be terrified of things she’s around daily, and not consistently either. Then when you gallop she’ll want to run away with you. If you’re riding with others it’s really hard to get her to stop if you’re not in the lead. She often bucks after a jump, and puddles are impossible to cross without a long discussion, half of the time. The other half of the time she wades right through them. But don’t let that discourage you. I haven’t built a relationship with her the way dad, and now you, have. That might make half the difference.”

“Dean’s been playing with her in the pasture in the evenings before you get home from work. I think that’s what made Hank decide it was time to start letting Dean ride her.”

“Play with her? How?” 

“Um. I walk around and have her following me. Chase her and let her chase me. And I’m asking her to mirror my movements, and if she does, I’m bribing her with carrots,” Dean tells Mike. The fear that once had been so crippling was long gone and his limitations today lay in a lack of experience and skills. But he was getting better. He tried to make time for the horses daily if he wasn’t travelling. It was a great stress relief, especially when he’d dealt with people he didn’t like. And three weeks ago Marlin had started greeting him with a loud whinny when he came, making his heart soar. He’d let Hank or Nick give him lessons, and sometimes he’d ride out together with Nick or the other siblings if they were around. Though, at this stage, every ride was a lesson in itself.

“Really? On or off a lead?”

“Off.”

“Dad used to do that too sometimes,” Mike says with a wistful quirk to his lips. They all got that expression when they remembered good things about Marlon. Everyone but Nick. Instead, he’d get nasty mood swings.

“Marco still bugs me about calling her Marlin.” Marco is one of the grooms. It pissed the guy the hell off that Dean doesn’t use the ‘correct’ name. So Dean had taken to calling Marco everything from Parkas to Couscous. Anything but Marco. The rest of the world could call her Indy all they want for all he cares. Marlin would forever be the blue marlin to Dean, end of story.

Mike laughs. “Still? Hah. She probably thinks her name is ‘baby girl’ anyway. That’s what dad used to call her. Okay, we’re here,” Mike says and pulls into a parking lot in front of a store. “Get inside and buy your pillows. And be quick. We won’t want to be late for dinner.”

This was his life now. You know you’re living the good life when you start longing for a day to do exactly nothing on. He’d once said he wanted a relationship where the mundane felt like an adventure. Instead, he’d gotten a full-time adventure. There was no mundane to be had, living like he did now. But that’s okay. This is better. It’s like back in the old days. His jobs might be different, but since he’s busy all the time, he doesn’t have as many nightmares, feels a helluva lot better about himself, and the urge to get drunk or high is low.

* * *

Everything isn’t perfect, of course. Nick still flirts with Sam discreetly anytime they visit each other. Sam’s got sense enough to break out in a sweat about it, caught between the fear of Jess catching on and Dean’s warning glares. And when Jess jokes about trading Sam for Mike―because Mike apparently loves babies and will gladly offer to change diapers, plus spends most of the time playing with the now six-months-old Noah, giving the ‘grownups’ time to talk―it gives Dean nauseating, disturbing images in his head. Nick will wave off his own behaviour as teasing, to keep Sam on his toes. Whatever. Dean doesn’t actually think Nick will leave him or cheat on him with Sam. Plus the tradeoff is that Dean gets to hang with Jess, bicker with Sam on the phone a couple of times a week, and watch his son grow. He can live with Nick’s dickish flirting.

* * *

The house they let build is bigger than Dean had originally imagined when he thought about moving into a place of their own. It had been fairly easy to combine their tastes and needs, but Mike, in particular, had demands only a spoiled millionaire would classify as must-haves. As a result, they have a gym in the basement, and the bathroom at the top floor is insane, with a stand-alone shower, big enough to comfortably have sex in, and with massage sprays from the sides too. A giant hot tub that easily fits all three of them, and a sauna. Totally unnecessary. To _Dean_. He’s as likely to use the simple shower on the ground floor, in the area Mike called their ‘murder rooms’ due to all the details pertaining to Nick’s work. Drains in all the rooms, a high pressure washer to hose things off, and a number of other things non-assassins didn’t have to have in their houses. This included Nick and Dean’s playroom, which, frankly, probably could double as a murder room with its chains and metal hooks in the walls to restrain Dean when he let Nick go all out on his sadistic urges. That is, if Nick would be dumb enough to bring work home. Which he isn’t. 

Nick filled their home with flowers, and made their garden something special to behold. The sweet perfume of flowers wafted through each room always. Mavis had an outdoor enclosure he could access at any time through a dog door. That enclosure was the only place in the yard he was allowed to be unsupervised, since it not only had prevention for him to dig himself out, but had a chain link roof as well. Mavis isn’t a big dog, and there are large birds of prey in the area. It only took two days to train Mave to use a corner of the enclosure as a toilet. It’s gold, because it means they can spend their morning with less stress, as Mave will take care of his own needs, and then sleep until they’re ready to leave for the day. There’s no risk of the dog lacking exercise or stimulation anyway, and all it requires is for one of them to go out in the enclosure and scoop up the poop to keep it neat.

Dean might think a gym and sauna is unnecessary, but Mike utilises it almost every day, so it fills its purpose. Their bedroom is on the top floor, as well as a spare bedroom they claim is Mike’s if they need to fool guests that aren’t in the know. Their three offices/studies are at the top floor too. The middle floor holds two guestrooms, storage, and their living room, the ground floor the kitchen, a sitting room with an open fire, an extended garage, washing room, the playroom, and a hidden room for equipment. The basement holds the gym and more storage. But they spend most of the time in the kitchen or at the top floor, in their bedroom or the offices.

The brothers' behaviour changes when they move from the estate. It’s subtle, but they get more… adult? Yeah, adult, in their behaviour. And not in the X-rated way. (That too.) Honestly, Dean couldn’t be happier.

* * *

`Depeche Mode, tour dates. June 22, Olympiastadion, Berlin, Germany.`

Dean stares at the computer screen in his home office. It’s a hunch. It’s the only date they play in Berlin this year. It could be nothing… But Marlon had played a studio version of _Walking in my shoes_ to his suicide, yet the CD he left in the bookcase was a live recording from Berlin. It’s gotta mean something, right? It’s _gotta_.

He closes down his web browser and pushes himself away from the desk, then he goes to the office beside his. He steps inside without knocking. “Hey, babe? When are you sending me to Europe to fuck that dude?”

Mike jerks in startlement and curses frustratedly under his breath. He reaches out for some tissue and dabs at… _a painting?_

“Woah. Are you painting, babe?” Dean asks and approaches Mike’s desk. 

Mike looks over his shoulder to give him a flustered look while he soaks up some watercolour that’s gotten where it shouldn’t. “Um, yes. Luci asked me to…nevermind. In three weeks. Why do you have to express yourself so crudely about it, anyway?”

“What? About fucking that hot guy?” Dean teases with a lopsided grin, but gets distracted by the watercolour painting of himself on the desk.

Mike gives him a dry look. “You could just say ‘seduce’, you know?”

Dean’s not listening. Labelling it differently does not change the package anyway. “Holy shit, Mike! This is awesome!” Dean touches the edge of the painting where the paper is bare, afraid to destroy it if he touches anywhere else. It’s him, naked from the back, looking over his shoulder, and most notably - with wing scars on his back.

Mike bends his neck and smiles shyly, cheeks colouring. “Thank you. Luci wanted visual aid. And―”

Dean scans the rest of the desk to find a folder with what looks like other paintings peeking out from a corner, and a paper labelled ‘Scarification Aftercare’ lying on top of it. Dean snatches it up and reads through it. “What’s this?” he asks redundantly.

“When, _if_ , you go through with this lunacy, I’m going to take care of you to make sure it heals as well as possible. I don’t like this one bit, Dean. Are you sure you’re willing to go through with it?”

“It’ll take six to twelve months to heal?”

“Until it’s completely healed, yes. And after day three we’ll have to irritate the wounds to make them produce more scar tissue. Luckily just until day ten. But there’s risk of infection and… Are you _sure_ you want to go through with this? According to my research, it doesn’t hurt that much worse than a tattoo to make if it’s done right. I know you two idiots would be happy to just carve away, but I told Luci that I’d only let him use my sketches if he did it properly. To make it a piece of art, not just… just…”

“Not just to torture me, huh. Yeah, no. Good call. If it’s gonna come out looking anything like this painting, I fucking want it. But he hasn’t asked yet.”

“I don’t think he will until he’s certain he can live up to my demands of perfection.”

“Can I see…?” Dean points at the folder.

Mike visibly squirms with reluctance. “They’re not good. I drew most of them from memory, instead of using photos as reference. I can do so much better. I―”

Dean promptly sits down in Mike’s lap and buries his head against his throat. “Mik _eee_ , please,” he begs and drags his teeth against Mike’s neck.

“That’s just not fair. Calling me Mikey like that,” Mike mutters, goosebumps erupting under Dean’s teeth and lips. He reaches for the folder and gives it to Dean. “Don’t judge too harshly, okay? I can do better. But I need photo references for that.”

Mike slips his arms around Dean’s waist and leans his forehead against the back of his shoulder as if he doesn’t dare to see Dean’s reaction. Dean opens the folder and looks at the pictures in awe. Some of them are pencil sketches, some watercolour paintings, all of them on A4 paper. They’re absolutely gorgeous. Some of the pencil ones are just dumps of sketches of Dean in different positions or with different expressions. Maybe a bit cartoonish, but that just makes them that more awesome. The last three pictures are a set of portrait paintings. One of Dean with his forehead rested against Marlin’s, a soft, loving smile on his face. One of Nick holding Mavis, grinning and scrunching up his face while Mave tries to lick him. And one picture is of Mike holding Noah, Noah with his open-mouthed baby grin and Mike with a big smile. “Holy fuck, Mike. These are incredible. They’re fucking _awesome_. Even the sketches. I mean, it’s me. It’s really _me_ , you feel me? Can we frame these three last ones? I want them on the kitchen wall where I can see them every day.”

Mike cringes. “What? No. They’re no good. See these lines over here? And the colour here is all wrong, and―”

“Shut up. They’re fucking perfect. I sure as hell can’t see the imperfections you’re talking about. And so what? This is ten times cooler than photos. This is the kind of stuff I want on my walls. Hell, I’d frame every single one of them if you’d let me. But these three, these are pure love, okay? This is us. Our family. Please. It’s art, man. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Like these sketch dumps. It’s like Disneyfied versions of me and I’m loving the hell out of it. You capture my personality perfectly, and that’s what makes me _me_ , right?”

Mike looks silently at him for a moment, gauging how serious he is. “You really like those?”

“Fucking love ‘em.”

Mike finally smiles. “I do too. I’ve been experimenting with a comic style of us and… you want to see? It’s even less life-like, but I really like it.”

“Hells yeah, I do!”

Mike leans down to take two sketch pads from the bottom drawer in his desk. They’re filled with hilarious and cute pictures of all of them. Apparently, Mike’s started drawing again as a way to unwind. He’s done so in quiet in-between moments at the office, when Nick and Dean are at the stable or otherwise occupied. He’s stupidly insecure about his realistic style and equally enthusiastic about his cartoonish style. 

By the time they go to bed, several of the prints that they had on the walls have been discarded to use their frames for Mike’s pictures instead.

* * *

“ _Jesus, Luci! What happened? Do we need to call an ambulance?_ ” Mike’s panicked voice wakes Dean up with a jerk. Heart pounding he’s out of the bed and making his way downstairs before he knows what he’s doing. The soft carpet on the stone stairs makes his descent nearly soundless.

“Calm down, Mikey. The blood’s not mine,” Nick answers calmly, halting Dean’s breakneck speed downward and has him creeping down until he can see the pair standing in the sitting room. Nick’s covered with blood, his clothes and hair in a disarray. His eyes are glowing with that innate power of his, nostrils flared, lips tight, all but vibrating.

Dean can only see Mike from behind as he peeks from above through the balustrades in the railing, but his posture shifts, relaxes a tiny bit. He slowly steps closer to Nick and extends a hand, like he needs to test if it’s true. “Y-you sure? What happened?” he asks and touches Nick’s bloodied face.

“Mostly. Two muggers with knives jumped me in the parking lot.” Nick smirks dangerously. “They didn’t live to tell the tale.”

“The police?”

“Won’t be a problem.”

For a moment the brothers stand in silence, just looking at each other, Mike’s hand against Nick’s cheek. The air is loaded and Dean holds his breath.

Then Nick suddenly grabs Mike’s wrist and wrenches his hand away. He tugs Mike in for a feral kiss, letting go of Mike’s wrist to dig his bloody hands into Mike’s ass cheeks, nearly lifting him off the ground. Mike emits a muffled whimper and clings to his neck with one arm while pushing at his jacket with his other hand, trying to get it off. Mike tears himself from Nick’s lips to kiss and lick his way along Nick’s bloodied jaw and neck.

Nick lets go of Mike’s ass with one hand to pull something out of his jacket pocket. Dean’s heart lodges in his throat when he hears a familiar _tzing_ -noise of a spring knife, that combined with the dark, predatory expression on Nick’s face sends a thrill of anticipation down Dean’s spine all the way to his balls. Mike doesn’t seem to notice until the cold metal of the knife glides up inside the hem of the back of his tee, grazing skin.

“Shit, _Luci_ , What―?”

Nick angles the blade outwards and cuts the fabric open. Mike gasps and Dean bites his lip not to do the same. He slowly sits down on the stairs and massages his hardening dick, spellbound by the unexpected show, afraid it will stop if he announces his presence.

Nick holds the knife away from their bodies, hooks a leg in the bend of Mike’s knees and pulls. Mike yelps in startlement as he falls backwards, Nick on top of him. Nick catches him with an arm around his shoulder, hand cupping the back of his head. It’s still a rough landing, almost knocking the wind out of Mike. Nick wastes no time in straddling him, shrugging off his jacket and grabbing Mike’s wrists in one hand, pinning him down. Mike gasps, wide-eyed and transfixed as Nick shows his teeth and twirls the knife in his fingers above Mike’s face. “You’re wearing too much clothing, big brother. I hope you aren’t too fond of this shirt,” he purrs in a low, threatening voice.

Mike bucks his hips and struggles against Nick’s grip. “If you cut me I’ll tear you a new one, little brother,” he threatens uselessly.

Nick chuckles darkly, eyes gleaming with excitement. He tuts. “If you don’t struggle you won’t get cut, now will you?” He holds the knife to Mike’s throat and Mike freezes with his chest heaving. “Although, you would look absolutely _beautiful_ with―”

“No.” Mike’s voice is a sharp command.

Nick hums in disappointment and angles the knife down to hook in Mike’s collar. He cuts downward, opening the shirt up with a ripping sound like he had on the back. He pushes the two pieces of fabric aside, biting his lip, admiring Mike’s chiseled chest. Mike’s stock still for a beat, then jerks a hand loose. He hits Nick’s forearm, sending the knife clattering across the floor, yanks Nick down for a kiss, hand fumbling with Nick’s belt between them. Nick lets go of Mike’s other wrist to pull his own shirt off and then they’re rolling on the floor, kissing, biting, licking, squeezing and pinching, breathing wetly, gasping and making eager sounds.

Dean’s rock hard, stroking himself and trying to breathe silently. The brothers seem to be locked in a grapple for dominance, shedding clothes as they go. Not that Mike had many clothes to shed to begin with. Both their eyes are feverish and intent on each other. Mike’s mouth is red as if he’s got smeared lipstick on his face, when in reality it’s blood. Over and over he ends up under Luci, whose pants are now bunched by his knees.

“Lube?” Mike asks breathily.

“Pocket. Wait.” They still. Mike kisses Nick’s neck and shoulder, sucking a possessive mark while Nick fumbles, trying to get to the packet of lube he’s got in his bunched up pants. Nick’s got a couple of bruises that must come from the attempted mugging earlier tonight. Mike digs his teeth into one on Nick’s upper arm, as if he’s punishing Nick for getting hurt by hurting him. Nick hisses between his teeth and grinds down his hips, rutting them together.

_They’re gonna fuck, aren’t they? Holy fucking hell! Nicky’s gonna fuck Mike right there on the floor! Shit. That’s so fucking hot!_

Dean speeds up his strokes, breath warbly as he lies down, looking at the brothers. He hopes he won’t give himself away. The stairs in their house zig-zag, with an intermediate landing between the floors. Dean’s hidden by the first-floor landing, not the intermediate landing. The light from the ground floor barely reaches here so the risk of being spotted is fairly slim. Especially with how distracted the brothers are by each other. But you never know.

Nick sits up and holds up the pack of lube with a triumphant grin. The first flowers of his tattoo visible when he holds his arm up like that. He’s begun covering his scarring up with Mike’s designs, little by little, and done two sittings so far. In this position Dean can see that both of them are hard, Mike especially, is leaking an insane amount of precome that glisten on his belly and dick. Mike sits up and kisses Nick’s chest downward.

Then, out of nowhere, Mike snatches the lube from Nick, pushes him down and flips him over onto his belly, ripping the pack with his teeth and paws at Nick’s ass.

“Mik _eeeey_ ,” Nick whines and tries to turn back over.

Mike hitches Nick’s hips up and pushes his head down, leaning over him. “ _Ssshh_ , little brother. I belong to you. You were made to be mine. I want you to give me this…” Mike coos soothingly and smears the lube on Nick’s hole.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Nick grits out and laces his fingers together over his head. But to Dean’s surprise, he stills, arches his back and spreads his legs to give Mike better access.

_Holy shit! Nick’s gonna let_ Mike _top???_

_Whoa. I did not see that coming…_

It doesn’t make it any less arousing when Mike lines himself up and slowly presses in. Nick’s breathing roughly but holds still and lets it happen. When Mike’s bottomed out he drapes himself over Nick’s back and kisses his shoulder and neck. “You good, baby brother?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Just gimme… _fuck_. I haven’t bottomed for fucking decades. Gimme a sec. _Phew_.”

“Shhh. Ssshh. It’s alright. Take your time. It’s alright,” Mike soothes and caresses Nick’s arms, placing kisses wherever he can reach. Dean has to stop stroking himself or he will come too early. He wants to see all of this, _enjoy_ all of this. They’re fucking _brothers_ for fuck sake and it’s so deliciously dirty it makes his head spin.

“You can go ahead now. Just go easy, okay?”

Mike stands on his knees behind Nick and starts moving, stroking Nick’s back, paying minute attention to his reactions. Dean doesn’t have a full view of Mike’s face―seeing them mostly from behind right now―but he does see when Nick relaxes fully and turns his head to give Mike a grin that’s mostly a show of teeth, giving him an all clear. Mike grabs his hips and starts moving in earnest, testingly at first, but faster, harder, when Nick meets his thrusts. “Luci… Oh, my God, _Luciii_.” Mike reaches down and hooks his arm around Nick’s throat to pull him to a standing position. Nick whines, grabs Mike’s forearm to prevent too much pressure on his throat and closes his eyes, panting.

Mike’s movements slow and he uses his free hand to reach around, giving Nick a helping hand. He mumbles something in Nick’s ear, a steady murmur Dean can’t make out. Whatever he says it eggs Nick on, makes him buck into Mike's hand in a steady rhythm.

Dean strokes himself in the same rhythm, pinching a nipple, biting his lip not to moan and whimper aloud. This might legit be the hottest thing he’s seen for ages.

Nick comes with a punched out sound, spasming and jerking while Mike holds him up and strokes him through it. 

Then Mike lets go and Nick slumps down on all fours. Mike once again grabs his hips and starts pounding. He’s giving it his all and Dean wishes he could see both their faces properly. Nick curses and moans, Mike gasps out Nick’s name repeatedly, and the loud slapping hides Dean’s own moan when he comes, pinching himself in the nipple and squirting on the stairs and on his belly.

Afterwards, he lies panting in dazed bliss, lazily watching the show continue, ignoring how the stairs dig into his ribs, hip, and knee while licking his fingers clean.

Mike comes with a long, pained “ _Luciiiiiiii_ ,” then slumps over Nick’s back, both of them collapsing so Nick’s flat on his belly. “You alright?” Mike asks satedly once a moment has passed with nothing but rough breathing calming down.

“Mmhm. ‘M going to be a bit sore, walking tomorrow. But I’m fine. You?” Nick answers drowsily.

“I’ve wanted to do this for such a long time you have no idea, little brother. Ever since our first kiss…”

“You’re a fucking perv,” Nick jokes, and both giggle tiredly. “We should shower.”

“And clean up. Wouldn’t want Mave to hurt himself on the knife…”

Dean takes that as his cue and discreetly sneaks back up again.

About thirty minutes later the newly showered brothers join him in bed. He pretends to be asleep when they come, and groggily ‘wakes up’ when they snuggle up to him on either side, but none of them mentions that they just fucked properly for the first time. In the morning Nick gives a full recount of the attempted mugging, but keeps his mouth firmly shut about what happened when he came home.

Dean has no idea why they’re keeping it a secret. Not that it matters. He’s seen. He _knows_.

* * *


	110. Brotherly Issues

* * *

# Brotherly Issues

It’s hard to keep from dashing off to Europe prematurely to get extra time searching for Marlon. It would be suspicious and unfavourable to show too much enthusiasm considering his mission. The important part is that he’ll be there June the 22nd. Until then, he bides his time, plans ahead, waits.

“So I told Marta that she could can it. Breastmilk is _the_ healthiest alternative for a baby and if it made her uncomfortable she could leave my house right away. Come _on_. If I’d been in a public place, I would have understood. Well, no, actually, I wouldn’t. But I would, if you catch my drift? But in my own house? Pfft! The gall! Could you hand me that―?” Jess points and Dean takes a box of cereals from a high shelf and puts it in Jess’ cart. They stroll slowly through the supermarket with a shopping cart each. Noah’s sleeping in a baby carrier on Jess’ front.

“Did she leave?”

“Yes, and good riddance. I don’t need women to judge me for feeding my child in my own home. She said it was rude while having guests. It’s ridiculous! Even in the congregation I grew up they had the sense to not make a fuss over a baby eating. Nobody gave you hell for breastfeeding in church,” Jess goes on and stops to add pasta to both her and Dean’s cart. She always glanced at his grocery list before they started their shopping and he really enjoyed these moments with her.

“Really? I woulda thought differently.”

“Uh-uh. No. The Lord said ‘Let the children come to me’, he didn’t say ‘now let them _starve_ ’,” Jess says, making Dean laugh. “A lot of things are wrong in the congregation I grew up. But the mother-child bond is considered holy. Since sex is frowned upon as a whole, anyone who would dare view a mother feeding her baby in a sexual way, would be rebuked. I never realised how scandalising the rest of the country seems to think it is, since breastfeeding was such a natural part of life, growing up in our town.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.”

“No. The view on sexuality, women’s rights, tattoos, and other deviances on the other hand…”

Dean snorts. The congregation Jess was brought up in was very old testament-y, and religion ruled the town. Her parents were deeply religious. However, they were also really good people. And when Jess had made clear that they had to choose between their grandchild and religion, they’d chosen Noah and Jess. They hadn’t forsaken God by any means. But they had moved out of their town and into a house not too far away from Sam and Jess. Dean’s first meeting with them had not gone as expected. He knew they considered being gay like some kind of disease that could be cured, and that they knew he was gay since that’s what had triggered Jessica’s standoff with them. So he’d been prepared to meet two judgey, bigoted fuckers. But he hadn’t been prepared for Jess’ dad. “I still can’t believe you didn’t warn me about Tom.”

“Oh, my God, Dean. You still moping about that? You’ve known each other for months now!”

“Dude. You coulda warned me. You said his name was Thomas Moore. You completely neglected to mention that his name is really Thomas Moore _Rainsborough_ , one of the best American hockey players of all time, if you ask me. That was completely unfair of you, okay? It’s hard to come eye to eye with someone you know consider you diseased, while at the same time turn into a fanboy. I lost my confidence completely.”

“I told you, he doesn’t go by that name anymore since he retired. He doesn’t want the attention.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. He shoulda thought about that _before_ he got famous.” He knew that Jess’ brother had run away from home because their parents had tried to get their son ‘onto the right path again’ when they found out he was gay. Knowing this had not prepared him for the kindhearted people they were. He’d expected douchewads. Getting to know them made it clear why Sam was so keen on keeping them as substitute parents. Grace struggled a bit with her acceptance of Dean and Nick’s marriage. It came out of a place of misplaced kindness. She was genuinely concerned they were going to hell. So she struggled and tried not to show it. Tom, however… _phew_. That was another story altogether. He too genuinely believed that homosexuality was a sin that would doom you to hell. But after twenty minutes in his company Dean’s gaydar was spiking off the charts. Dean hadn’t said a word about it to anyone, but he was 100% sure that Tom is gay. Not bi - _gay_. So tragically suppressed it made Dean want to fucking cry about it. Then Jessica’s grandparents on her father’s side had repudiated her _and_ Tom and Grace, all because they decided to accept Dean as part of their family… Dean once again thinks of his own dad who’d taken Dean’s homosexuality with a shrug. How different life might have turned out if he’d been judgemental about it. Maybe Dean too would have grown up to think he was disgusting, diseased, wrong. Maybe he too would have married a woman and played out a charade, living unhappily forever after. But what could you do, in Tom’s position? He was brainwashed. He believed in God, heaven and hell, and grew up to believe divorce would send you to hell just as certainly as homosexuality would. It was a mess and Dean didn’t know what, if anything, he should do about it. All he knows is that he likes Jess’ parents even if they’re brainwashed. “Oh, hey, did I tell you about yesterday?”

“No?”

“Me, Mike, and Nick went out to eat, right? There’s this place close to where we live where they allow dogs so we can bring Mave. So me and Nick were cuddled up together after dinner and Mike went to the bar to get us a couple beers.” Nick and Dean drank non-alcoholic ones. It wasn’t as great as actual beer, but it did the trick. “There was this guy at the bar that came on strong to Mike. Like really put the moves on him. Ain’t gonna lie, the guy was a solid 8. Good lookin’ fella. But Mike turned him down, telling him he wasn’t into guys, that he’s straight. Nick and I could barely hold it together. We’ve been teasing the shit outta him. ‘Hey, Mikey? How does it feel for a straight guy to come home to your boyfriend?’,” Dean retells with a grin. Of course, they’d said _boyfriend **s**_. But Jess didn’t know about Nick and Mike. That might be a bit too much for her to swallow considering they’re brothers.

Jess laughs. “He really considers himself straight?”

“He does, yeah. I mean, he’ll admit he’s bi for _me_. But he’s never been into any other guy ever, if he’s to be believed. And I believe him. I’m just that special,” Dean smirks and winks at Jess.

“Of course you are,” she answers dryly and gives him a flat look. She hadn’t thought it was strange when he dragged Mike along to the first dinner they’d been invited to. After all, she and Hester had become fast friends and she often visited the greenhouse café. So she’d thought Dean was just introducing another in-law. Then she’d walked in on Dean and Mike kissing in the kitchen. She’d been horrified, thinking she caught Dean cheating. Mike had been equally horrified. ‘I can explain! It’s complicated, but―’ Mike started but Dean had interrupted him. ‘No it’s not. It’s simple. Nick’s my husband, Mike’s my boyfriend. They’re brothers and they share well. There’s no jealousy between them.’ As if to prove his point, Nick had come into the kitchen right then, and hadn’t given any reaction whatsoever when Dean kissed Mike again. Jess had been baffled, but accepted it as soon as she realised nobody’s getting their feelings hurt. 

“Hey, baby mama, you ever… uncomfortable with… um. Me and Noah? I promised I’d stay out of his life, and yet, here I am.”

Jess looks down on the sleeping baby on her chest with a warm smile. “No. I thought it was going to be a problem. But Sam thinks of him as his son, yet he still considers him yours too, in a strange way. I guess Nick and Mike aren’t the only brothers that share well?” she adds with a cheeky smirk. “Personally I think the more people who love my son, the better it is. If something should ever happen to me or Sam, God forbid, I know Noe won’t lack loving support.”

“Yeah, no. That ain’t gonna happen. My nephew will have all the support he’ll need.”

She gives him an odd, unreadable look as they turn a corner into another aisle. “That reminds me. Sam had something he wanted to talk to you about. Do you have time after we’re done here?”

“Sure. I’ve always got time for my baby bro.”

* * *

“S’up, Sammy? Jess said you had something you wanted to talk with me about?” Dean greets, giving his little brother a hug.

“What? Oh. Right. Right. Yes, I do. Do you want a beer? Join me in the garden?” Sam flusters.

“Yeah, sure.” Sam always keeps a stock of non-alcoholic beer for when Dean visits. Sam’s flustering makes Dean nervous. He wonders if this is going to be about Nick’s flirting. But he goes along with it.

Sam takes two beers out of the fridge, uncaps them, hands one to Dean and leads the way to the garden. They sit down in the garden furniture and Sam picks on the beer label. Dean’s gut churns nervously. “This ain’t gonna be one of these ‘it ain't you, it's me’ conversations, is it?” Dean asks in a joking tone.

Sam’s head snaps up. “What? No! No. It’s not― Look. They say having a baby never saves a relationship, right? But for me and Jess, it did. I never realised how much I wanted this until I had it. It still scares the hell out of me, being a dad, but this life… I love it. Being a real family. And I know we still fight, you and me, and sometimes I still get bitter and resentful, but it’s gotten better, and I don’t regret for a minute that I let you back into my life. I'm happy I did, right? I feel like we're finding our way to what we were supposed to be to each other. Right?” Sam rambles, barely breathing between sentences. 

“Uh-huh. I love you too, Sammy. What’s up? You need money or somethin’?”

“Huh? No. Not― So get this. Jess and I had a talk. We want Noe to have a sibling.”

“You gonna reattach your tubes? I read it's possible.”

Sam flashes his dimples and looks down on his bottle, going back to pulling pieces of the label off. “No. Uh… Look. We think it would be for the best if the kids are full siblings. So if something happens, the chance of their organs matching would be greater, and um… we’re wondering if you could help us out again.”

Dean stares blankly at Sam.

Sam looks up, spots his expression and holds up his hands placatingly. “Oh no. I don’t mean that I want you to have sex with my wife. No no no. I mean, donate sperm, so we can do an artificial insemination. I didn’t mean― I don’t―”

“Oh, Good. Because I ain’t lettin’ you have another go with my husband either.”

Sam turns a dark shade of pink and takes a nervous sip of his beer.

“Are you sure about this, Sammy? Like I said, they could reattach your wiring. You could go about it the old-fashioned way.”

Sam smiles at his bottle. “I’m sure, Dee. I’m still Noe’s dad even if you fathered him. And I trust you. I think of how protective you were of Jess when you told me what you’d done. How important it was to you that I was the only one who suffered for my actions. I don’t think you’ll ever sue for custody and try to take our kids away from us. And the way you’ve stopped drinking because you fear Mave would be hurt if your mind isn’t clear around him… I respect that. I used to think you’d be like dad. I remember how much you drank even in your teens. But you’re not. I know this is a lot to ask, but…”

“But it isn’t, really. I’d make a sucky dad, unlike you. You’re good parents. And I get to see the kids grow up. I get to share in the experience from enough distance not to fuck their heads up. ‘Course I’ll do it.”

Sam gives him a huge smile. “Really?”

“Yeah. If that’s what you want.”

“We do. It is. Thank you.” They clink their beers together and take a sip each. “For the record, Dean, I think you’d make a great dad.”

“Shaddap. I don’t care,” Dean mutters. But coming from Sam, it means a lot.

* * *

Mike starts acting strangely after he had fucked Nick. He started to grind his ass up against Dean when he passed by. He’d pose. Not the way he usually did, but in the way _Dean_ would pose to entice _him_. It’s not like Dean’s unaffected by it. Coming into the kitchen in the morning to find Mike leaned over one of the stone counters, arching his back, ass on display… of course it did things to Dean. He found himself draped over Mike’s back with a grip on his hips without a second thought. But when Mike suddenly stands up straight just seconds before Nick walks in, that’s how you know something’s up. It’s one of those brotherly games again. 

When Dean first had sex it was good. He'd topped and he'd liked it. It was a good addition to make out, frott and BJs. When Dean bottomed the first time it was awkward, tense, and rather painful. The guy went in just a bit too fast and they'd used olive oil as a lube, which isn't the best option. But the pain had been on the right side of what Dean could take and even though they never hit his sweet spot the whole thing had left him gagging for more. Only days later Dean had found himself in a supposed cruising spot behind a gas station. Sure enough, someone had taken the bait. The guy knew what he was doing, had real lube handy and Dean had let himself be fucked in the back of the guy’s pickup truck. It had been a next to religious experience to Dean. It turned into a craving. He could probably happily go through his life never topping ever again.

Mike and Nick, though… 

Okay, so Dean didn’t really know about Nick. He’d told Mike he hadn’t bottomed for decades, so he obviously _had_ at one point or another. But he’s such a natural top that Dean had been hard pressed to even consider it a possibility if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. Nick had no qualms about getting a finger or two in his ass. He knew how to appreciate a prostate orgasm. 

Mike, on the other hand, had misgivings. He was generous and trusting when it came to sex, so he’d allow it, but he’d have trouble relaxing unless you gave him a thorough rim job first.

So when they’re in the shower together when Nick’s still at work, and they’re making out, helping each other wash, and Mike turns his back, grabs Dean’s hard dick and presses in against his hole, something’s up _big time_. “You’re one hot fucker, Mike, but are you sure you really want this?”

“Come on, soldier. Don’t you want to be the first?” Mike coos, looking over his shoulder, trying to goad Dean to give him what Dean doesn’t actually think he wants.

Dean drapes himself over Mike’s back, slipping his hands around the soap-slick waist to massage Mike’s balls and stroke his dick. “You so eager to feel someone inside of you? Feel yourself being taken over from the inside out?” Dean purrs, rutting against Mike, his dick sliding between Mike’s ass cheeks. Mike closes his eyes panting, leaning against the wall. “You want that, baby? You want to give up your control to someone else? Be used as someone’s vessel and let go of yourself? Hm, baby? You want that? Want to be marked up on the inside? Have someone’s hot come fill you up? Feel it leak out of y―”

Dean’s suddenly pushed off and turned around. Mike grabs the silicon based lube they keep in the shower (Because, _hello?_ ), lubes himself up and starts pushing in, just like Dean predicted. The answer is, no, Mike doesn’t want all of that. Dean thinks that what Mike wants is some petty revenge at Nick, since Mike isn’t his first, and therefore Mike wants to withhold that privilege from Nick too. 

Mike doesn’t give up easily. Dean’s determined not to play along with Mike’s game, but Mike’s his hot fucking boyfriend and Dean’s not made of stone. His resolve cracks ever so often when Mike turns into a cocktease. The problem is that with their working hours they’re usually on a time crunch until late night when they’re home all three of them, and Mike’s too fucking tense. If Mike had prepped himself, actually wanted it enough to relax, or been able to take it like Dean and Nick, Mike wouldn’t be a butt-virgin anymore. But the idea of prepping himself doesn’t seem to occur to Mike and he’s so nervous he clenches up harder than a nun at a satanic orgy.

Why he’s so persistent now, becomes clear to Dean one morning when he wakes up before the alarm goes off to find Nick lying on Mike’s other side, having pulled the cover off to expose his body. He looks spellbound as he trails his hand down Mike’s back to his ass. He bites his lip and pulls Mike’s ass cheeks apart. 

Dean gets Mike’s rush now. Nick’s given, and now he’s aiming to take. And soon Dean will be on another continent, leaving the brothers to work out their complicated shit alone.

“Dude. What’s with the somnophilia ya both got goin’?”

Nick jerks his hand back, gaze snapping to Dean like a deer in the headlight.

“He’s your boyfriend. You don’t have to look guilty. ...Unless you were planning on popping his cherry while he slept. In that case, you’re gonna have to have a discussion with my fist.”

“I wasn’t―”

“Mfflmb?” Mike chips in confused and newly woken from the noise of them talking.

“Nick was tryin’ to pop your cherry while you slept.”

Mike twists his head to glare at Nick and Nick narrows his eyes in betrayal at Dean.

“You know what? I’m gonna go have a nice long shower,” Dean states and rolls out of bed with a faint hope that they’ll resolve this ridiculous game they’re playing. The brothers watch him go in silence. Mavis jumps off the bed, stretches and follows Dean, so he heads downstairs to serve Mave breakfast and make sure he has fresh water. After Mave has eaten and gotten cuddles the dog trots out to his enclosure so Dean heads upstairs and starts the shower. He brushes his teeth, shaves, then sneaks back to peek into the bedroom. He’d hoped to catch the brothers talking. Instead, they’re having sex. Mike’s topping again. 

Which means this will continue until the roles are reversed.

He scoffs and goes to take that bloody shower.

* * *

Sadly, Dean’s not there to see it when it finally happens. He _knows_ it’s happened because Mike suddenly stops pestering him about it. It also makes him realise how much tension there’s been between the brothers since the night Nick came home covered in blood and let Mike take him. Honestly, Dean hadn’t noticed the strain until it was gone. He hadn’t noticed it because even with that _thing_ between the brothers they were fucking one. They were so fucking aware of each other that they might be in telepathic contact for all Dean knows. It’s small things. Like when they’re eating at a restaurant and Mike and Dean are in deep conversation. Nick takes one bite of his food and frowns. Mike takes the salt and hands it to him without even breaking eye contact with Dean. Or how either of them could stand by the fridge and take out something to eat or drink, then throw it to the other who'd catch it without looking up. Or small things like how some sentences never got finished before the other gave the answer. Like “Have you seen..?” or “Where’s my..?”

Dean and Nick have this kind of rapport too, just not to this extent, and Mike and he are slowly building up to something like it. But the brothers are **one** even with near constant bickering, so Dean could be excused for not seeing the strain in their relationship until it's gone. It’s like when you walk on a beach every morning to enjoy the silence, and then one day there’s no wind and you realise that you’ve been able to hear waves and clucking and a whole range of sounds, so you've never really heard actual _silence_ before. That’s exactly what happens. A sense of peace descends on them. Balance has been restored. There’s just one more thing Dean needs to do now or he’ll go mad.

“Hey, Mike…” Dean says, popping his head into Mike’s office.

Mike looks up from his computer. He looks stressed out but smiles in relief when he sees Dean. “Hey, sweetheart. Come in, come in.” He gestures for Dean to come inside.

“I’m not interrupting anything?” Dean closes the door behind him.

“You are, but I need the break so it’s a good thing. I long for things to stabilise further. Some days I think I’m stretching myself too far.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Mike pushes his chair away from his desk to accommodate for Dean who sits down across his lap and winds an arm around Mike’s shoulder. Mike leans his head against Dean’s chest and sighs. “You’re doing it already. It used to be, the only times I could let go of work completely and think about other things, was when Luci was home on leave. These days I can let go both at home and moments such as these. It means a lot, being able to relax.”

Dean sniggers. “Yeah. I sure made you relax in the janitor’s closet earlier.”

Mike grins. “You did, but it’s not what I meant. You came here to let me return the favour?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah. I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

Dean strokes a lock of Mike’s hair back into place behind his ear. His own hair’s getting too long again. It’s nearly brushing his shoulders. It’s still short enough to fall into the yuppie category, but a few more inches and he’ll look like a surfer instead. He figured he’d cut it into a fitting style once he gets to Belgium and figures out what type Sander prefers. “Did he do right by you?” he asks softly.

“Who?”

“Nicky. He didn’t hurt ya, did he? It was your first time, after all. And I know you were nervous about it. How was it?”

Mike’s cheeks colour adorably. He draws breath as if to answers, a surprised look on his face, then lets the breath out again. “How did you know?”

“Oy. Just answer the question,” Dean chides.

“It was… it was alright. He was sweet. Took his time opening me up. I wanted him to hurry, to get things over with, but he wouldn’t stand for it. He was very gentle with me. In hindsight, I’m glad. I don’t think I could have taken it the way you do. But it was… it was better than I thought it would be. I even enjoyed it.”

“Good. Look, Mike. If you want me to top in the future sometime, I’ll do it. But I fucking _love_ bottoming. And I wasn’t so keen on being used as a pawn in whatever power game you two were playing.”

Mike bends his neck, having the decency to look regretful. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I love you, Mike, and you’re one sexy motherfucker. You present like you’ve been doing and my engine revs whether I prefer bottoming or not. But can you explain to me why you’ve been keeping it a secret from me, that the two of you have gone all the way? I saw you, you know? That night when Nicky was attacked. Jerked off watching you. You two together are the sexiest thing ever. I get hard just thinking about it.” As to demonstrate, Dean takes Mike’s hand and pushes it against his semi. “So why are you sneaking around as if you’re cheating?”

“I… honestly, I don’t know.”

“That ain’t good enough. We’re a threesome, not three twosomes if you feel me?”

“I do. But I don’t know why we’ve been keeping it from you. I’m sorry.”

“Will you have a chat with Nick about it while I’m gone? I ain’t saying you can’t fuck when I’m not around, I just don’t want you to hide it from me.”

“Will do. Promise.”

* * *

Nick’s reaction is slightly different. “You _saw_ Mike fuck me?! _Fuck!_ ” He looks like he wants to slam his fist into the wall upon hearing this.

“Yeah, and it was so fucking hot I jerked off watching. You know it’s a turn on for me. Why keep it a secret? I don’t mind. The only thing that annoys me is that I missed it when you popped his cherry. I woulda loved to have seen that.”

Nick’s foul mood evaporates into a smug smirk. He grabs Dean by the hips and pulls him in. “You want to watch me fuck Mikey, darling?” he purrs.

“You know I do.”

Nick kisses his throat with a pleased hum. “Then you shall, darling.”

“You know it doesn’t change the way I see you, right? When you bottom for Mike? You’re still my lion. Ain’t nothing gonna change that.”

Nick grunts. “If you say so.”

“Look. All I’m asking is that you and Mike talk it out while I’m gone. I ain’t putting up with any of this sneaking around business you’ve got goin’, okay? Promise you’ll resolve it,” Dean persists.

“I promise. Now shut those cocksucker lips of yours and put them to better work,” Nick demands haughtily and pushes at his shoulders. Dean thrills at the predatory gleam in Nick’s eyes as he sinks down to his knees to do as requested. He’s pleaded his case. Hopefully, this will be resolved by the time he gets home again. For now, he’ll let himself be distracted and just enjoy…

* * *


	111. Garnet Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks! Our journey is nearly over. :) One more short chapter after this one. As promised, I'll write a bonus chapter (113) that depicts a Ducifer only ending, showing the happy _-ish_ ending they would have gotten if they'd left their past behind.

* * *

# Garnet Angel

“I fucking hate people. Why did I ever think it was a good idea to open a business where people are actually allowed to talk to me?” Nick grits out as he stomps into the kitchen and comes around the counter to give Dean a peck on the cheek where he’s cooking dinner. He’s practically oozing bitterness when he grabs a non-alcoholic beer from the fridge and then goes to sit at the table opposite to Mike, throwing a longing gaze at Mike’s glass of red wine. 

Mave had been trotting by his heel but stays inside the cooking area of the kitchen so he can sit by Dean’s feet and look morose and starving, ignoring his bowl of kibbles in hopes of getting a little extra something from Dean.

“What did they do now?” Mike humours Nick. Dean’s the only one getting hello-kisses from either of them. They slip seamlessly between brothers and boyfriends and back, but more often than not they act like brothers.

“The question is what _didn’t_ they do? First there was this cunt who gave me a spiel about how Mave shouldn’t be allowed in _my_ fucking store, because _she’s_ allergic. She, who came in to buy a fucking fifteen dollar bouquet, all while complaining that the flowers in it weren’t high quality enough. Of-fucking-course they weren’t high quality! Those are the good for nothing flowers we’d throw away if we weren’t nice enough to take the time to construct semi-decent looking bouquets that are practically free, for cheapskate, disgusting excuses for human beings like herself. If she didn’t want to spend money she could have taken the time to pick fucking wildflowers instead of pestering me. I swear, I was _this close_ to breaking her face. But then Annie swooped in, telling the cunt that Mave is a service dog to help to battle PTSD in war veterans. And then all the sudden the whore was okay with Mave being there. Even petting him. Allergic? Pffhah!”

“Huh. Well Annie’s not wrong, now is she?” Dean points out and tastes the tomato sauce before adding some more basil. 

Nick grunts. “The hag went to the café afterward so I made a round with Mave, making sure he peed on her car. Oh, and Annie told the witch about our website. Said she didn’t have to come to the actual store in the future. Good riddance if she doesn’t. The website has been gaining traction and we have to do more deliveries. But _then_ Andrew decided to take the company truck to go to lunch for whatever reason his little peabrain made him think it was a good idea, and forget all about how to keep track of time. So the time we were supposed to load the truck so I could make deliveries on fucking time, there was no truck to load. I had to use one of the smaller company cars and do several runs instead. But unlike the truck, they don’t have adequate cooling, and with today’s stifling heat I almost had to deliver wilting flowers. On top of that I got stuck in traffic _twice_. On top of that, Hester had a kitchen emergency so I had to jump in behind the counter there. And don’t you think I get one of those fucking customers who want to know exactly what’s in precisely every fucking shit Hester sells, making a queue because she wants something sweet, creamy and crumbly without gluten, dairy, nuts, berries and _whateverfuck_. She was wearing a fucking cow print vest to boot. I ended up asking if she was certain she wanted to eat at a café when there’s a perfectly good pasture just a mile up the road.”

Both Dean and Mike try to hold in their laughter. 

“Oh, you can laugh about it. Go ahead. It gets better. When I come back Annie and Andrew are nowhere to be seen. I had to cater to a brute who wanted a splendid bouquet to tell his girlfriend he loved her. And he picked out the most ridiculous flowers, giving a very different message. So I told him about the language of flowers. But would he listen? Oh no. People don’t want to put thought into it. Nor would he listen when I told him that the flowers he’d picked would not go well together because they required different conditions to keep well. I was so fed up that I threw in a geranium for free.”

Mike laughs out loud. “The passive aggressive game in you is strong, little brother,” he states with a grin and switches his glass of wine for Nick’s sorry excuse for a beer. Nick gives him a grateful look and takes a relieved sip of the alcoholic beverage. 

“What do geraniums stand for?” Dean wants to know and throws a small piece of bacon to Mave.

“Stupidity and folly.”

Dean sniggers. “Seems fitting. So where were your employees?”

“Fucking in the storage room.”

“Wait. Didn’t you tell me Andrew was banging Carmen? Or was it Nell?”

“Both. All three of them. Depends on who he shares shifts with. And they all think he’s madly in love with them. The guy has an uncanny ability to juggle girlfriends without getting exhausted by the lies. Anytime he starts bragging about his feats I want to break his bones one by one. Slowly. But the asshole is one hell of a seller, and he happily rats out all the other employees to me anytime they screw up. It’s some kind of fucked up boys versus girls mentality.”

“He has to go. You’re giving him the boot first thing in the morning. I ain’t tolerating that kind of disrespectful and disloyal behaviour,” Dean states decisively.

Nick scrunches up his face in a grimace and makes a whiny noise that without words clearly says ‘Do I have to? I don’t wanna.’

“Why not, Nicholas? You’ve got security cameras. You don’t need a rat.”

“Because then I have to find a replacement. Go through interviews, teach another bozo the ropes, the works. Like my employees aren’t giving me enough trouble as it is.”

Mike covers his mouth with his hand to hide his giggle. To him, this is hilarious. Nick hates his employees. He hates every single one of them. They’re not disciplined and efficient the same way a good team of soldiers are, or any of his siblings for that matter. He’s got high standards, setting the bar he measures them against sky high just like Marlon had done for his kids. His employees aren’t bad. They make mistakes and fuck up like any normal, civilian people do. Most of them are excellent at making sales. Only one of them has a deeper, burning passion for everything flowers, and that’s Annie. He hates her in particular because she tends to follow him around and ask a million questions when there’s a lull and he’s working in the nursery.

“Then I’ll do it for you. I’ll come in tomorrow after my ride. If we’re lucky some of the old applicants we had to turn down are still available. If not, I’ll find someone to temp until we got someone new. Don’t worry about it,” Dean informs him.

Nick leans back in his chair, twists to throw one leg on the table and keeps the other one firmly on the ground. One of his arms are hooked over the back of his chair and the other holds his glass rested on his belly. The weird slouch doesn’t look like it’s supposed to be comfortable, but Nick had a talent of making any perch seem restful and comfortable, much like a cat. He smirks at Dean then looks at Mike. “See, Mikey? This is why I love Dean. He gets me.” 

“I still don’t get how you pulled it off, making them think Dean’s their real boss,” Mike remarks. “Your face was plastered across the news for _months_. The nursery is literally named after you. And they still don’t get that you are _the_ Lucifer.”

Dean was a bit surprised at that too, to be honest. Nick’s employees all seemed to think that Nick was just another employee who happened to have seniority. People simply don’t ask questions these days. But then again, the pictures in the news had been outdated and once the whole thing blew over Nick had managed to dodge the mainstream media fairly well. Gold Crusted and other outlets had more recent pictures, but normal people didn’t read those papers and Nick was widely considered as not part of the Williams business anyway. It wasn’t a secret that he owned the store. All the paperwork held his name. But regular employees don’t pay attention to upper management. Nick’s just ‘Nick’ to them. So when Dean came breezing in one day with his tailor-made three-piece suit, expensive accessories, yuppie hairdo, and introduced himself like Dean Williams, then proceeded to hound Nick about some important documents, they had jumped to conclusions. “I like it that way,” Nick answers. “They might not like me, but they’re honest in a way they wouldn’t be if they knew. Like when Megan came to me, asking if I could ask their boss for a new coffee machine in the breakroom. She hardly dares to look at Dean for fear of saying something wrong. Or when Annie complained about the morning routine when she was forced to work mornings with me. Despite her fucking incessant chatter, she had some good ideas I doubt she’d dare put forth to her boss, while whining about it to a co-worker is fine. The changes I made after that saves us about forty minutes we can use for other things. Now, if they can just stop referring to me as ‘ _Old Nick_ ’, that would be nice. I’m forty, not _ancient_.”

Both Dean and Mike snigger. “Not forty yet, little brother. You’ve still got months to go.”

Nick scoffs. To his mind he turned forty the same day Mike did. “I don’t want a party.”

“Too late. I handed over the planning to Gabe,” Mike says with a shiteating grin, then cackles at Nick’s balking expression. Dean can see how Nick hides a more pleased reaction behind a sip of wine a moment later when Mike starts retelling how his day has been. Gabe’s parties, Dean’s been told, are something special, and Nick loves to have his family come together to party. Hannah and Dick’s wedding had proved that. They’d gotten married quite soon after Marlon’s passing. It could have been seen as a way to smooth over the grief with something positive, but Dean had done some calculating once Hannah had announced she was pregnant, and suspected it had more to do with the baby being born within wedlock. Either way, Roman hadn’t cared for her disownment, which was the important part. Even if Dean had a creeping suspicion that it was a pragmatic choice rather than one made out of love. As long as he _acted_ in love towards Hannah it didn’t matter. And if he fucked up? Well. Then he’d have to deal with an off-leash assassin with a grudge.

* * *

After dinner Mike heads upstairs to draw his comics, having been inspired by Nick’s adventures. He no longer hides his art from Dean, which is great. Dean heads outside to play with Mavis for awhile. Nick comes to join him half an hour later. “Darling, would you come with me to the playroom for a bit?”

“Yeah, sure. But you can’t leave marks. I’m leaving in days and I can’t be expected to seduce hot guys covered in bruises,” Dean jokes.

“Don’t give me ideas,” Nick grumbles.

“Oy. You’re the one who _asked_ me to take another man’s dick up my ass, remember?” Dean ribs and signals for Mavis to go inside so he can shut the door. Mave comes running but turns the corner inside the kitchen and bolts straight for the other side of the house to the hatch in the door to his outdoor enclosure. The dog _loves_ being outdoors, even if it’s just to chill and watch the birds or bark at the neighborhood cats that aren’t perturbed by the high, spiked walls surrounding the perimeters of their property.

Nick gives him a dark look as he follows him. “I didn’t specifically ask you to do that. I asked you to get the information we need from him.”

Dean laughs. “From a guy whose weakness is pillow talk? What do you expect me to do? Masquerade as a pillow and hope he talks in his sleep?”

Nick rolls his eyes. “I don’t need vivid descriptions, darling. Just get the job done.”

“Oh, but I think you do. You’re the one pimping me out like a whore,” Dean continues teasing with a smirk.

Nick scrunches his face up. “You could have said no. And don’t bullshit me. You’re going to enjoy this shit.”

“Hell yeah, I am! A freebie with a hot guy like Sander? Fuck yeah. But then again, by your logic, I coulda fucked him anyway with no repercussions.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?” Nick asks, dark in the face.

Dean spins around to face him with a shiteating, sly grin, bouncing into him chest to chest. “It ain’t cheating if he’s dead, remember?” he purrs.

Nick grits his teeth and manages to show them in a threatening smile. “So that means you’ve cleared him already?”

“You got me. Didn’t think that through. No, I haven’t. Maybe I just gonna fuck him and declare him too pure to be offed.”

Nick grunts. “Don’t worry. Then I’ll just cut his dick off and leave him alive.”

Dean puts a hand over his heart and bends his neck, looking up at Nick with a simper. “Why, Mister. You sure know how to make a man swoon,” he says in his best Scarlett O'Hara accent. 

“Fuck you.”

“What? You afraid I’m gonna leave you for him or somethin’? You know, I just might. Maybe he’s such an awesome lover I can’t help myself. I’ll be moaning like a helpless bitch in heat for h―” Dean’s goading is cut short by Nick slamming him into the wall beside the door to the playroom.

Dean tries to laugh, but with half the wind knocked out of him all that comes out is an amused wheezing.

“You’re fucking goading me on purpose, you little cunt,” Nick growls, lips drawn tight over bared teeth, eyes dark, and keeps him pinned against the wall with a forearm pressed against his throat.

“Damn straight, I am,” Dean presses out in a garbled wheeze. “You had a rough day. You ask me to the playroom. Figured you could use some relief for yer aggression.”

Nick glares at him then lets his head fall forward to rest on Dean’s shoulder, the pressure on Dean’s throat lessens and Nick’s shoulders shake as if he’s laughing silently. When he looks up again he wears a suffering expression. “I fucking swear it, darling. You’re the only one I can think of, that would consider putting images of you fucking another man, in your husband’s head _out of fucking kindness_.”

“That’s why you love me,” Dean smirks with a shiteating grin.

“No _o_ , it’s _not_ ,” Nick says patiently, lone lilting upward on the ‘no’.

“Sure it is. And you’re gonna take me in here and fucking punish me. And then, when I’m done stealing the secret from Sander, you’re not just gonna kill him, you’re gonna make him disappear. That way it’ll look like _he_ sold the secrets to us and went AWOL. So instead of just stopping the company he works for from getting ahead, we can make use of what I find. As a bonus, since nobody’s gonna find the body, you can do whateverfuck you want with him.”

A dark, predatory smile spreads on Nick’s lips. “See? _That’s_ why I love you.”

“ _Mmm_ hm. Love you too, my grumpy little murder-baby,” Dean purrs and grinds his crotch against Nick’s.

Nick chuckles. “You’re distracting me. That wasn’t why I wanted you to come with me. I want to show you something.”

“What?”

Nick steps away from Dean to open the door to the playroom, then leads Dean in by the wrist. On the bed, there are several papers. Paintings Mike has done. Dean’s only seen one of them before. His heart takes an excited skip at the sight of the pictures of himself with angel wing scars on his back. Nick hugs him from behind and kisses his neck. “I’ve got a fantasy. I’ve been wanting to ask something of you, but my brother is a meddlesome bitch, so I had to make some preparations first. See those pictures? Don’t you look pretty like that?”

Dean sniggers and picks one picture up. It’s a close up of how his shoulder would look when it’s healed. Another picture on the bed surprises him, because it depicts how he’ll look while Nick’s at work, blood all over. He didn’t think Mike could stomach painting something like that. “Mmhm.”

“Remember that you said that I could leave scars as long as they’re pretty?”

“Uh-huh?”

“When you come back from Belgium, I want to _carve_ you,” Nick breathes hungrily against his skin, sending electric shivers down his spine. “Please say yes?”

He should at least pretend to argue against it. It’s insane. And if Mike’s to be believed, Nick doesn’t know he’s been mentally preparing for this for months. “ _Yes_.” His voice comes out rough. After all, he _has_ been preparing for it for months, to the point that he’s started to long for it. No need to play coy…

* * *

Thursday, September the 15th, nearly three months since he left home, Dean gets off the plane in Long Island. It’s 82°F outside with few clouds scattered across the sky. Dean’s heart is beating in excitement to be back. It’s a bit like coming home from a tour overseas back in the days, except he has a home and a family waiting for him. He’d honestly never thought he’d have that by the age of 35.

He pushes his pilot glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose, adjusts the strap of his messenger bag (he’d opted to travel solely with a carry-on, as flying is shit even without adding an hour of waiting by the baggage claim), straightens the brim of his cowboy hat, and heads for the exit. For the last three months he’s been masquerading as an urbanised country bumpkin, ex-army, private security engineer from Texas, speaking French almost exclusively, and slipping into a Southern accent anytime he’s had to speak American due to a limited vocabulary or interaction with non-French speakers. He’s played his role as ‘Jason Teague’ well, and succeeded in his mission, Nick’s cared for his part while Dean was debriefing his finds to Cas and Gabe in France, and finally, it's time to reunite. 

Stepping out in the waiting hall, Dean spots the sign Mike’s holding up before he sees Mike. Amongst signs with names held by cab drivers there’s one saying **`INSANELY HOT GUY`**. Dean chuckles with a warm feeling in his chest. His insides fizz like Champagne when he spots Nick and Mike’s eager faces. He hasn’t spoken to, or communicated with them all summer, except for a brief summary of Sander’s whereabouts and habits to Nick just before Nick was to carry out his mission. Then, while Nick did his thing, Dean had combined detoxing and debriefing in Cas’ house, not wanting to go through his withdrawals when he finally came home. 

A high pitched scream of pure joy startles Dean to look down to see Mavis, finally having spotted him, pulling at the leash, clawing at the floor in his desperate tries to get to him. Mave yips, wheezes, strangling himself in the collar until Nick lets go of the leash and allows Mave to cannonball himself at Dean in ebullient elation at being reunited. 

Dean goes to his knees to receive him and can't hold back bubbling laughter as the small dog's enthusiasm nearly knocks him over and he's getting his face licked within an inch of his life. Mavis races two small laps on the floor between the brothers and Dean, then launches himself at Dean again, bumping the hat off his head licking and yipping.

When he calms down enough to let himself be hugged and lifted, Dean’s eyes are wet. (Allergies, okay?) But that’s alright, because most of the onlookers are both misty-eyed and grinning as broadly as him. He puts the dog down, puts his hat back on, and walks the last few strides up to the brothers. Nick’s the first to hug him. “Fuck, I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too, darling. It’s been lonely without you.”

“At least you had your boyfriend to keep you company.”

“My _straight_ boyfriend isn’t going to do me much good.”

“What a coincidence. My boyfriend’s straight too. Lucky my husband’s hella bi.”

“Oh, shut up,” Mike butts in, shoving Nick out of the way to hug Dean. “You’re never letting me get over that, are you?”

“Never,” Nick sniggers.

“Welcome home, soldier,” Mike bids, gives Dean a kiss on the neck and withdraws to take something out of his pocket. It’s Dean’s dog tags. Dean takes the cowboy hat off again and lets Mike hang them around his neck. He wonders if Mike can feel the last bit of tension drain out of Dean as his identity symbolically is restored.

They’ve opted to pick him up in a limo, because apparently, they’d been arguing for two days who’d have to drive and who’d get to sit next to Dean in the back until it hit them that a driver and a wider seat solved that equation. Dean might be sick of limos by now, but he isn't going to argue when it means that he can be squished in the middle of two needy, cuddly assholes with dopey smiles.

Mike keeps petting his hair. “I’ve never seen you with your hair so short before.”

“Yeah… after I got kicked out of the forces I couldn’t stand looking at myself with short hair. It just reminded me my life was over. But now that you two idiots put jumper cables on it, I don’t get the same bad associations. An’ I gotta say, when it’s hot out, short hair beats long by a mile.”

“It’s awful. Too short to braid,” Nick jokes.

Dean scoffs. “You’ve got sisters for that.”

“I like the colour,” Mike persists. Dean had coloured it a medium brown, darker than his real colour, but not so dark it didn’t match up with the rest of his body hair convincingly―all to fit into Sander’s tastes. “It suits you. I like your natural colour better, but this is nice too.”

Nick sniffs him for the umpteenth time since they got in the car. Dean gets that. He'd probably be sniffing the both of them as well if they weren’t rubbing themselves all over him like fucking cats scent marking their territory, until their joint scents had overtaken the smell of travelling in his nostrils. He can’t wait to come home and make love to them, so their sweat will mingle on his body. He wonders if all people are as primal as him in this department. “I’m planning to change back before I go back to work. That way any paps won't be able to spread pics of me that'll give away my personas.”

“Good thinking. Say… did he treat you badly?” Mike asks. Dean’s honestly surprised he wants to talk about it at all.

“No. Not at all. Why are you asking?”

“Because Cas told me that when you called him to give your verdict on Nick taking the job or not, your exact words were ‘ _Burn the motherfucker down_ ’.”  
“‘... _Burn the motherfucker down_ ’,” Nick says it in sync with Mike, albeit with a much more gleeful dark lilt.

Dean laughs. “Dude was real nice to _me_ , if you feel me? He liked to be envied. And I’m, what was it? _Insanely_ hot guy? He liked having me around. I saw to it that I flirted a little with everyone, just to make them interested, but not enough to make him jealous. Still. Took me a while to win his confidence and go beyond being just an ornament. But I was lucky. Something happened. Luckier still, because if it had happened here in the States I’d most likely be dead. Gotta love Europe, man. No guns.”

“What happened?”  
“What happened?”

_Fuck, I love when they do that._ “Some guy pulled a knife on Sanny. If he’d actually known how to handle one, I mighta still been screwed. But now it was just a regular Joe with a grudge, who was stupid enough to want Sanny to _know_ why he was gonna die―”

Nick scoffs. “Monologuing is only an option if they’re already dying and no help can reach them in time.”

“Yeah. No shit. It gave me time to prepare for a fight and step between when he charged. ‘S not like Sander was of any use. Too scared to see straight. The fucker still got me, but nothing deep or serious. But afterwards I played up a whole desperately worried boyfriend act. You know? ‘I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you. I love you, San. I can’t bear the thought of losing you now that I’ve found you.’ All while I was bleeding all over his white shirt.” Dean pulls up his arm to show a long scar across his forearm. “In his world, I was all but dying and still declaring my loyalty to him. It changed the game. Afterwards, he started talking. Had some kinda vision of us ruling the world together too. I’m telling ya, that guy had serious American Psycho vibes. Except he’d never get his hands dirty himself. Loved to see people humiliated and degraded. I still feel dirty for having to laugh and pretend I enjoyed his fucked up mind-games he played on people.” Sander might never have hurt anyone physically―(or if he had, it would have been people who couldn’t defend themselves)―but he was downright evil, with a charming and beautiful exterior. 

“Don’t worry, darling. He won’t ever humiliate anyone again,” Nick reassures pleasantly. Mike shivers. Nick might have given him all the gory details. It wouldn’t surprise Dean in the least. Dean, however, does not want to know. For a brief second, he considers what might have happened if Nick had never been reunited with his family, and had fallen in love with Sander instead of Dean. It makes Dean shiver too…

* * *

“Are you sure about this, darling?”

“Yes.”

Nick hums and cups Dean’s naked ass cheeks, pulling them apart to look at the plug. “It might take hours.”

“I know.” He’s got cuffs around ankles, wrists, and neck. They’re padded to be comfortable but he's sure they won't be once he starts struggling against them.

“You know, we _can_ just do it the normal way. None of these will be necessary.” Nick pulls on one of the chains to underline his meaning. “It'll hurt about as much as a normal tattoo.”

“I said no. Since this is gonna leave scars, you've got one shot. We gotta make it count. No do-overs.”

Nick sucks on his lips in thought. “I've fucked Mikey on this chair,” he tells Dean. “He wasn’t restrained, though.” He runs a finger over the sketch work Mike’s already drawn onto Dean’s back. “It’s sturdier than it looks.”

Dean’s dick twitches. The bed’s been replaced by a custom made ‘massage chair’ that Nick had ordered by a company that catered to the hardcore BDSM crowd. It could very well work as a chair to give someone massage in with its comfy headrest with a hole for the face, support for arms, thighs, and shins, leaving the back exposed and relaxed. The difference is sturdiness, the straps and rings attached to it, and that it can be repositioned with a person strapped into it - shifting the tilt and angling arms and legs for whatever purpose. So whether you were into torture, massage, submission, or getting fucked in a comfortable position - this is your chair. “It looks fucking sturdy.”

“We went at it pretty hard. Couldn’t tip it over…” Nick pauses for a beat. “Are you really sure about this?”

“ _Yes_. Dammit, stop asking.”

“Mikey don’t want me to do this. He’s afraid I’ll carve too deep. Make the scarring uneven. He wants me to go about it like a professional scarification artist would.”

“I trust you.”

Nick straddles the office chair he’s chosen to sit on while he works, crosses his arms over the backrest, then rolls to Dean’s head so there are only inches between them. “That’s stupid of you. I’ve never done this before.”

“Pfft. Bullshit. You totally practiced on Sander.”

Nick gives him an insulted _I-would-never_ look for a beat, then a pleased smile appears on his face. “Ah. You know me too well, darling,” he sniggers. He's naked just like Dean. It had been a pleasant surprise to see that he'd done another sitting at the tattoo artist. A greater part of his scar is covered by Mike’s designs and some of the flowers spill onto the undamaged skin on his upper arm and shoulder. The best part is that the more tattoos he's got, the less self-conscious he gets. Two days ago he removed his shirt in public when the autumn sun got too hot.

“Yeah, yeah. You gonna get started or not?”

Nick purses his lips and hums. “The door is locked. Mikey won’t be able to get in even if he tries. He can’t save you, but you can tell me to stop at any point―”

“No. Quit being a pussy. No safeword. I’m all in. Do your thing, babe. Tear me apart and then put me back together.” They’d talked it over in detail. He knew what’s waiting. It’d be a lie to say he isn’t apprehensive. But he’s excited about it too. It’s fucked up. If anyone had told him he’d be looking forward to pain one day, he’d call them insane. Nick’s brand of love is insane. And yet…

_Who’s insane now, huh?_

Nick’s nostril flares, eyes dark and hungry. “Fair enough. I’ll be asking you one more time, once I’m done carving. Then, if you say yes again, while your wings are raw, coloured garnet by blood, I will pour…” He reaches for the trolley he has his equipment on. Scalpels, tweezers, bottles, plastic gloves and whatever. Dean hadn’t looked too closely. He takes a bottle and holds it up in front of Dean’s face. “...this on your back. I think you’ll be able to take the carving in itself, but this, this will feel like liquid fire. It will burn for a long time, and you _will_ struggle against your bonds, howling in pain. It’ll be too much. It’s the only point of pouring it on your open wounds.”

“Go for it,” Dean persists. Garnet angel. He likes that. The brothers view him as some kind of angel that pulled them out of hell, that allow them to walk the Earth freely. He can’t view himself like an angel, but if he does, he likes the idea of being a fallen one, wings scorched red into his back when he fell. He too might have developed an affinity for symbolism.

Nick gives him a concerned frown. “I’ll be turned on. I’ll remove the plug and shove my cock in you so I can feel you contract and struggle around me. I’ll breed you like that, darlin’. Come inside of you.”

Dean’s dick twitches persistently, filling. “ _Please._ ”

Nick’s responding smile is minatory and hungry. He puts the bottle back, demonstratively and slow he puts his gloves on, then takes one of the scalpels and twirls it between his fingers inches in front of Dean’s eyes with an expectant expression. Maybe he’s looking for fear? Something else than the blind trust and sanguine thirst. “I’ll be using this mostly.” Nick’s lips part as he reaches out and scrapes lightly with the sharp blade at the thin skin just below Dean’s eye. Dean inadvertently lets out a soft gasp. He might trust Nick, but the game’s begun, and some reactions are beyond his control. His heart speeds up, cheeks flushing, and he can see Nick’s pupils widen.

“Hey, Nicky. Do you know why Oedipus was against profanity?” Dean asks, nerves carrying through his voice whether he wants it or not.

“No?” Nick answers, removing the scalpel without having broken skin.

“Cuz he kissed his mother with that mouth,” Dean says with a shiteating grin.

Nick groans. “I’m getting real tired of these motherfucking jokes.”

Dean blinks. Then he gets the pun and starts laughing. Nick reaches for something on the equipment trolley and Dean jolts as a pleasurable buzz touches his prostate. “Fucking hell! It’s a _vibrator??_ ” he exclaims. He’d been cleaned, prepped, and plugged. But he had no idea the buttplug Nick used had a fucking vibrator in it.

Nick hums and smirks. “Mmh. Let’s see if I can make you scream long before you’ve reached your pain limit, shall we, darlin’?” he purrs and rolls out of Dean’s line of sight. Dean hisses between his teeth when the first cuts come like deep, stinging papercuts on his back, distracted as he is by the pleasant stimuli of his ass. The peeling of skin burns slightly. And the longer Nick works, the worse it gets. Not only that, the vibrator has different pulsating modes and speeds that Nick switches between so he won’t get used to the sensation, effectively preventing Dean from reaching a detached state.

Nick was right.

Dean’s screaming before they’re even a third way through…

* * *


	112. The Golden Lighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter. 113, when it comes, will be the promised Ducifer only ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAA! Our journey is over! There's a sequel in the making but it'll not be focusing on Dean/Luci/Mikey. It feels so weird to come to the end of a story. I don't believe any story is ever over. The characters' lives go on long after we leave them, and when they're gone their legacy lives on. It feels sad to say goodbye. I'm so grateful for all of you! For your comments and kudos and enthusiasm that's kept inspiring me throughout!
> 
> I want to extend a special thank you to my wonderful betas - [mizz_kitty21](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mizz_kitty21) and [YouCantKeepMeDown](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YouCantKeepMeDown) . Without you, this story would have taken a lot of different turns, have more plot holes and unanswered questions, let alone be riddled with many more faults. Knowing you two goes into my day-to-day #HappyTag. ;)

* * *

# The Golden Lighter

**Long Island, NY. A few days earlier…**

Mike’s got his head rested on Dean’s chest, squeezed between Dean and Nick. Nick’s head is pillowed on Dean’s arm and Mavis is snoring loudly a bit further away. The grass underneath them is cool and lush, above them, the stars are out and the full moon paints the land underneath her in deep shadows and silver highlights. They’re watching the stars. The night sky here, so close to a city, can never measure up to the awe-striking beauty of the night’s dome of stars in the Afghani desert, far from any polluting lights. It’s still beautiful.

It’s getting colder. The winter isn’t far away. They’re taking advantage of the bearable temperature to lie on their lawn and enjoy themselves before the chill will stop them from doing this until spring trades off for early summer. It feels so serene.

“I’d never expected I’d get a happy ending,” Nick muses.

“There are no happy endings, jackass. We can only hope for a swift one,” Dean counters.

Mike chuckles and Nick scoffs. “For the love of―! You know what I mean,” Nick snipes.

_I do. I really do._

If anyone would have offered Dean to return to the army today, he’d say no. He wouldn’t trade this life for anything. He grins to himself. “I went to the stables today,” he says, changing the subject. “It’s a well-known fact that dogs remember their owners, but horses? It’s been three months, I didn’t think…”

“Indy neighed at you?” Mike asks.

“Yeah. She was in the south pasture. I couldn’t see her when I got there so I shouted her name. She came racing from the other side of the pasture, calling for me. Did a horse’s version of flinging herself into my arms.”

“Bet you cried about it too, you fucking fairy,” Nick teases.

“Hell yeah, I did. You think you’re the only one who didn’t think they’d have a happy ending?” Dean sniggers, not raising to the bait.

“You hear this, Mikey? Why need us when a horse is what makes his ending happy? Ungrateful bastard,” Nick grumbles jokingly, side-eying Dean affectionately as Mike sniggers.

They’ve got it all. Home. Family. Love. Rewarding jobs. Sometimes Dean wonders what would have happened if he and Nick had chosen to leave the past behind. If they hadn’t gone to search for Mike and if Dean hadn’t made one last attempt at reconciliation with Sam, where would they be today? Would he and Nick be happy? Would they even be _alive_? Questions that will forever go unanswered, and that have no bearing on the future but tickles the mind all the same. 

He digs up his pack of cigarettes and one-handed takes out a cigarette and taps his Bic lighter out. He puts the cig in his mouth and lights it.

“Where’s dad’s lighter?” Nick asks suddenly, watching him with a frown.

He’d hoped Nick wouldn’t notice.

A vain hope.

His heart rate picks up its pace. He hopes the moonlight washes enough colour out to hide his guilty blush. “I lost it.”

“You _lost_ it? Dammit, Dean! That was dad’s favourite lighter.”

“Let it go, Luci. It’s just an object,” Mike soothes.

“But, Mikey―!”

“No. I said, let it go.”

Nick settles down, chastised and discontent. He’s still not over Marlon’s death by a mile, and everything that has to do with Marlon might make him unreasonably upset. He’ll get over it eventually, Mike’s reassured Dean.

It takes Dean’s heart a moment longer than it should, to calm down.

Nick would be even more upset if he knew Dean hadn’t lost the lighter, but given it away.

More so, if he knew to whom…

* * *

**Three months ago, Boussu-lez-Walcourt, Belgium.**

Dean’s tired and disappointed as he drives off of the N40 and pulls into the Esso gas station to fill up his tank. All the lies he’d had to tell to be able to get to Germany in time for the concert in Berlin while at the same time prepping for the Sander job, and yet, _nothing._

_What did I expect, anyway?_

He hadn’t been able to get his hands on a ticket, but that wasn’t what he’d been after. There’d been too many people to get a good overview. Cab drivers, security staff, people working in the ticket booths, random concert-goers, he’d shown the picture to all of them but none had remembered seeing Marlon. Or rather, those who thought they recognised the picture had proved to have mistaken Marlon for someone else. He’d get equally excited for every new tip, but more disappointed by every bust.

_I’m probably barking up the wrong tree, to begin with…_

Nevertheless, he’d kept showing the picture to anyone he came across, long after he’d given up. Now he’s on a time crunch. Tomorrow he’ll ‘accidentally’ bump into Sander for the first time after one week of stalking to map out his habits and his ‘type’. He still has some ways to drive to the hotel he’d set up as a base camp for his persona Jason Teague.

He pulls his fake dog tags out of his shirt to hang visible and goes inside to pay for the gas. These are stamped with Jason Teague’s name. His own tags hang around Mike’s neck until he gets back home. The woman behind the counter looks about fifty years old and has a sympathetic vibe. He gives the woman a smile and tells her which pump he’s used and asks for two packs of his cigarette brand. She’s chatty. Talking about the weather, tourists and whatnot. He answers politely but he’s too tired to muster true enthusiasm. He just wants to get to the hotel and bask in his failure.

“You’re a soldier?” she asks and points at his dog tags.

“I was. I’m retired.” _Oh well. It can’t hurt asking…_ “Hey, so… one of my brothers in arms disappeared in action and was thought dead. He was found alive recently in a raid. He’d been taken prisoner by the enemy. He’s getting married now and I’ve come to Europe to track down his father. Apparently, his dad sold everything he owned and went backpacking in Europe when he was told his son was dead. Maybe you’ve seen him?” Dean hedges and takes the photo of Marlon from a pocket. He shows it to her.

She looks at the photo and her face splits in a smile. “Oh, yes. I remember him. A really charming man, impossible to forget.”

“You're sure it’s him?” Dean exclaims excitedly, heart hammering hard at the sign of Marlon actually being alive. Hope always flare strongly, whether he wants it to or not.

The skin around the woman's eyes crinkles as she smiles warmly and nods. “I wouldn’t forget such a handsome face. He stopped by yesterday for gas. He asked for directions while he was here.”

“Really? Where to?”

The woman tells him. 

Time crunch or not, he can check up this lead and be in place to meet Sander tomorrow. He’ll make sure to be on time. If he doesn’t check up this tip now the trail might go cold if it’s really Marlon.

_If_ he’s alive.

Dean thanks the woman and goes back out to his car. He throws the packs of cigarettes on the seat beside him, then sticks his hand into one of his pockets to touch the cool surface of the diamond Marlon gave him. 

_No. You believed in me, papa. I’ll keep my faith in you too. You’re alive. I just know it. I will find you. I promise you that._

He removes his hand to open one of the cigarette packs, puts a cig in his mouth and throws the pack back on the passenger seat. Then he takes out another cold object from a pocket. He stares at the treasured golden lighter for a while. Then he flips its lid, lights his cigarette, starts the car and drives off to follow the new lead…

* * *

**Long Island, NY.**

Mavis starts wuffing in his sleep, legs twitching rhythmically as if he’s running. They all twist their heads to watch him. Nick chuckles lowly as Mave’s tail starts thumping on the ground. His pissiness about the lost lighter dissipating from the moment. Dean won’t be surprised if he’ll hear snide remarks about the lighter in the future. Like when he’d bumped into a shelf at the estate and accidentally broken an ornament that supposedly had been another dad-favourite. He’s yet to hear the end of that. It’s simply a sore spot for Nick and since he isn’t likely to get any kind of closure, it’ll probably always be.

 

“I spoke to Jess today, and guess what?” Dean says and blows out a puff of smoke.

The brothers turn their attention back to him. 

“What?”  
“What?”

“It took.”

Mike sits up straight and looks down at Dean with wide eyes. “The insemination?”

“Yup,” Dean answers, popping the P.

“She’s pregnant?” Mike asks, radiating an excited buzz.

“Yup,” Dean answer, grinning at Mike’s elation. “And this time she said we were welcome to be part of it. Feel the baby kick and all that jazz.”

“Me too? Sam won’t mind?” Mike wants to be clarified.

Dean can’t help but laugh at him. “Yeah, you too. All that babysitting you’ve been doing has them buttered up real good.”

“You _asshole_. You tell me this now, when it’s too late to call and congratulate them!”

Nick sniggers and pulls Mike down between them again. Mike gives him a shove that turns into a scuffle where the two of them roll away from Dean, wrestling and waking Mave up with their antics. Dean rolls over to his side, smokes his cigarette and watches them with a smile on his lips. Soon the friendly wrestling match will turn into something hot and needy with the ecstatic energy created by Mike’s joy of having another baby on the way in the family. Dean will put out his cigarette and jerk off to the sight. Or maybe he’ll join in this time. Who knows?

They’ve found a good balance, the three of them. Built up hardcore trust, respect, and a deep-founded love. They’ll have ups and downs, but Dean’s happy, and it feels like this might very well be a ‘Happily forever after’.

Trust is a fragile thing. Once you’ve told certain lies, you can never come clean, or the trust will shatter beyond repair.

To keep what he’s got, and let all three of them be happy, he’ll have to take some secrets with him to the grave. 

Like the lie of what happened to the lighter…

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finishing a story like:

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are little nuggets of food for my inspiration. Feed me? (Also, not getting feedback makes me get insecure about my writing.) I'll gladly take concrit too.


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